


Young Folks

by Everlind



Series: Young Folks verse [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Age Difference (sorta? not that much), Alternate Universe - Human, Biting, Explicit Language, Frottage, Humanstuck, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Sloppy Makeouts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-22 22:05:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 33,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everlind/pseuds/Everlind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yeah, you know this dickhead. You've never met him, never spoken to him, but you really, really, <i>really</i> fucking hate this guy. For entirely childish reasons that are his fault simply by virtue of <i>existing</i>. </p><p>John Egbert is Dave Strider's best friend.</p><p> </p><p>Too bad his eyes are this amazing, really blue color. Damn it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_If I told you things I did before, told you how I used to be_

_Would you go along with someone like me_

_If you knew my story word for word, had all of my history_

_Would you go along with someone like me_

_*_

The summer evening settles languid and stifling over the camping grounds. Everything is bathed in golden hues and you think your brain might be slowly marinating in its own idiocy. Which shitstain wears a goddamn long sleeved, black t-shirt in the middle of August to a festival anyway?

Oh, yeah.

That's right. You. The shitstain is you.

God it's fucking hot.

You can't even swipe the gross curl of black hair clinging to your forehead away, because both your hands are being held custody by two particularly appealing females.

Way to go, huh?

Summer festivals are supposed to be one sexy tangle of casual fucking, getting high and listening to great live music and here you have not one girl focusing her undivided attention on you, but  _two_. A bead of sweat slides down your nose and you twitch.

"Sit still fuckass," Jade snaps.

"Fuck you, Harley, my goddamn hair is hanging in my eyes and I'm wetter than Equius during a porno," you return.

"Wow," Dirk offers mildly, from somewhere to your left.

Roxy lifts her eyes up to yours and waggles her eyebrows. "I have the weirdest boner right now," she whispers.

You frown at her.

Someone touches your hair and you jump in surprise. Jade hisses. Aradia is pinning your bangs back with a hair clip. Much better.

"You made me miss," Jade pouts. There's a streak of neon green nail polish across the middle finger of your right hand.

The girls are painting your fingernails. 

The irony of the situation rather adequately sums up the whole of your life, all grueling twenty-four years of it. Seriously though. A festival in the middle of August, a bunch of perpetually horny youngsters stuck together on a camping, wearing skimpy clothes with a near endless supply of booze at hand, high on life, music and fuck knows what else.

And you're getting your nails done. 

In barbie pink and neon green.

You're too damn mellow to give a fuck, too. Admittedly, this may also be due to the fact that Roxy is not wearing a bra. Her breasts are small and perky enough that she can manage it. The way her nipples strain against the fabric as she sits curled over your hand is distracting as hell. You feel like it is your duty as a specimen of the male spectrum of the human species to give them due appreciation.

"Are my boobs causing you offense, Karkitty?" she asks, smirking. "You've been scowling at them for almost ten minutes straight."

You can't even bring yourself to blush at the rebuke. Seriously, they're right  _there_ , being all sassy and pointy and you  _have_  been ogling.

"… I'm not sure," you offer after a moment. "I may need to stare a bit longer to figure it out."

"Do I need to smack a bitch?" Dirk asks, still as deadpan as before.

Roxy's mouth quirks. "No, it's okay. My boobs are awesome and I am magnanimous."

"Thank you," you say. "And they are very awesome indeed."

"Grew them myself," Roxy tells you proudly.

"My compliments."

Aradia lets both her hands drop onto your shoulders and you jump for the second time in ten minutes and Jade hisses again. Roxy has managed to slather more pink next to your nails than on them, even though she's not  _that_  drunk. You figure it is likely she's doing it on purpose.

"Can I comb your hair?" Aradia asks, dragging both her hands through your unruly mop. She apparently doesn't mind it being a sweaty tangle that might only remotely attract small, disease-ridden rodents.

"We're doing hair now, too?" you grumble. "Well, fuck, sign me up. That's what I'm here for, extreme make-over. Make a pretty fucking princess out of me."

It's odd how you seriously really don't give a flying shit. Perhaps it's the atmosphere getting to you. It's this sweet, wholesome feeling of not having any goddamn obligations for four whole days, as well as being surrounded by people you actually like. You've always adored Jade, though you'll never admit it, and while this is only the second time you've actually met Roxy her clever and brash attitude is pleasant. Aradia you've known for ages. Her fingers on your scalp are soothing. Also, you're really fucking desperate for any kind of positive attention, so, yeah, you're eating this up and begging for more like the mangy cur you are.

You put your foot down at make-up, but by the time Dave finally deigns to make his first appearance he still gives you this  _Look_.

"Dude, seriously?" he says, voice flat.

"I've lost control of my life," you just say as Aradia pulls your hair back. It's barely long enough for a stupid stumpy tassle at the nape of your neck. Half your curls spring free as soon as she lets go.

Dirk waggles his fingers daintily at his twin. All of them bright pink. Roxy got to him after she was done with you. 

"Pink is  _so_  your color," Dave tells him.

"I know," Dirk nods, holding both hands out and admiring them. The paint job is notably more decent than on yours. Roxy playing favorites, the wench.

It's starting to get dark, everything fading to these violet-blue shadows with fluffy pink strips of clouds stretching overhead. Dave swoops down to kiss his girlfriend before leaning over to give you a fist bump.

You both connect knuckles.

"Hey man," he says. He doesn't really smile and his eyes are hidden behind his ridiculous aviator shades, but you can tell he's happy to see you.

It's been a while since you last saw Dave and even though you've been here for nearly half a day, he's been out and about until now. Your friendship with Dave is intense, sort of complicated and gritty with backstory.

The short of it is: he was there for you when you though you'd lost everybody else. But that came after he hooked up with your ex-girlfriend. Basically you loathed him for almost two years before everything went to hell and he was the only one who got it, got you, and was  _there_  for you even after you'd treated him like shit.

There's a lot of sore history between you two, but despite that you're bros. It's just… okay.

Dave is physically the complete opposite of you: extremely tall, pale and thin. White, straight hair and finely wrought features. Whereas everything about you is dark: dark olive skin, wild, thick black hair and dark eyes. You're both shorter and heavier than him (granted, not much of an achievement. Dave is a walking toothpick). And you know you look harsh when you frown, aggressive and fierce. 

It was  _you_  who they stopped for a thorough bag-inspection as you queued up for entrance. You. Not handsome, smiling Gamzee (despite his being out and about in full clown regalia. You suppose they pegged him a fanatic cosplayer or something) or lean and pale Sollux. Not even Aradia, who's dusky and exotic, but in this wonderfully alluring way you can't ever hope to manage.

No, they stopped you, even though you knew the contents of your luggage was ludicrously vanilla compared to the others. The raunchiest things you had in there was your toothbrush and a well-loved copy of  _Pride and Prejudice_. 

No bombs, hardcore porn, knives, drugs or what the fuck ever they expected. Hell, you don't even have condoms with you (why would you, even? You always end up handing them out to others which is depressing as shit).

They stopped you, on account of the color of your skin, even though Gamzee was really fucking high, even though Aradia probably had a fuckload of shit in there that was dead and had been for a while and Sollux was capable of flat-lining the whole goddamn continent with only his phone.

You try not to care, but sometimes you just hate everything. Sometimes admittedly being most of the time. 

Right now you feel good. 

Calm and settled. Sort of tired, but not in a bad way. The concerts start tomorrow, but you and Dave agreed to set up a day in advance. He and his friends had already secured a spot before you arrived. The grounds are neatly divided into squares, with towering spotlights in the center of each. Smack-dab in the center is a section dedicated to the cafeteria, toilets and showers. The latter two will remain more or less clean until next morning, at which point about a hundred thousand drunk jackasses has puked and shitted all over them. Your and Dave's group is camped far enough from the toilets so you won't succumb to the festering foul odor by tomorrow morning, but close enough that you don't have to undertake a whole expedition if you want to take a piss in the middle of the night. It's just a little further than half the field, a long enough walk, but doable, as well as off to the side, so you won't have too much drunken stragglers keeping you up at dawn. 

"Do my nails, baby," Dave presents his hands to Jade, who takes them, her tan fingers curling sweetly around his.

You have to look away.

It's absolutely hilarious that you and Dave -for all your differences- have the same taste in romantic partners. Oh, you're over your horrible crush on Jade. Granted, you pined for about half a year and avoided Dave like hell during, but you got over it. There was Terezi, too. And, yeah, that's only two people, but both of you are serious about relationships. He always gets the girl in the end, though. And so he should. When he's not strutting about impersonating a raging bag of dicks, he's actually nicer than you.

Aradia is still at your back, sort of idly arranging your hair around, but her attention is focussed on Sollux.

Yeah, fuck, you're lonely. That's okay, actually. You still feel good and you're here with your friends.

 

Really. It's okay.

*

You wake up somewhere near dawn.

Blearily lifting your head from the mattress you blink and rub at your eyes, disoriented. 

"Hey, bro."

Well, mark this day on the goddamn calendar. Gamzee found his way back to the tent again. Last time you did a festival together you had to pick him up from lost-and-found three fucking times.

"Gamz?"

"Yeah man?"

"… what time?"

You can see an expanse of tanned skin as he peels off his shirt, long tattooed arms stretching above his head and accidentally knocking into the ceiling of the tent. A drop of condensation splatters onto your cheek. It's cold.

"Fuck! You colossal shitstain!" you snap, mopping at it angrily.

"Sorry," Gamzee chuckles softly and lays down next to you. "Not sure motherfucker, about five or something."

A lanky arm wraps around your waist and scoops you closer, making you grunt. You feel like an impotent caterpillar in your sleeping bag as Gamzee casually slings a leg over your thigh, buries his face against the top of your head and falls asleep like a log.

And of course, you're pretty much wide awake.

Fuck your life.

*

As nice as it is to be held you lie awake for about a good hour, glaring blearily at the blue walls of your tent while Gamzee huffs warm exhales into your hair.

Eventually you manage to worm your way out of both his embrace and your sleeping bag so you can get up. You grab a hoodie, pull on your jeans from yesterday and stick your bare feet into a pair of well-worn gray hi-tops. Fresh morning air slaps you in in the face as you unzip the flap and crawl outside.

Despite having only slept four hours tops you feel pretty good. There's a haze of mist hanging over the camping grounds, enveloping the tents so they appear like colorful bubbles bobbing in a sea of smoke. It is sort of hauntingly beautiful. You stretch, reaching for the sky and arching your spine until you can hear several vertebras crack.

"Morning!"

You startle, look around in confusion and then finally spot him.

A gangly kid a few years younger sits cross-legged on the damp grass, grinning up at you. You take in the wild black hair, lean limbs and ridiculously blue eyes behind black-framed glasses. You don't recognize him. It's some idiot from the other half of Dave's entourage, but they never bothered to show up yesterday night. Your face must betray some of your confusion because he grins wider and stands up.

He's taller than you. Not much, maybe a good handspan, but still taller than you.

This, by itself, is enough to make you dislike him. And then he says: "I'm John," still smiling.

Oh, fuck. Oh, goddamn.

Why didn't you stay in the fucking tent?

Yeah, you know this dickhead. You've never met him, never spoken to him, but you really, really,  _really_  fucking hate this guy. For entirely childish reasons that are his fault simply by virtue of  _existing_. 

John Egbert is Dave Strider's best friend.

As close as you and Dave are, it is John he goes to when it really matters. It's  _John John John_  all the fucking time and Dave may call him a dork and an asshole, but it is obvious he utterly adores him. John was his friend long before you ever came into the picture and you have no right at all to be a possessive little shit about Strider, but you really don't give a fuck.

You frown at him.

"Karkat, right?" John's smile doesn't even falter. No, the little dipshit merely appears highly amused at your expense. He sort of bounces on the balls of his feet and you really want to smack that expression off his face.

"Why the fuck are up this early?" you bite at him.

"I'm an early riser," John says, shrugging. His mouth quirks, before his face suddenly falls into a harsh, intense lines. "Why the fuck are  _you_  up this early?"

It catches you off guard until you realize the little douchenozzle is mimicking you.

John bursts out into explosive laughter when he catches your expression, a loud  _HAAAA-_  until he slaps both hands over his mouth, cutting the bellow abruptly off. He glances around, eyes wide. "Sorry," he whispers to everybody still sleeping in their tents.

All you can manage is a flat: "You're a goddamn idiot."

That only gets a shrug and another wide grin. He's got a bit of an overbite. It's ridiculously adorable. It makes you even angrier.

"So why were you?" he asks.

"What? Why was I what? Me speculating how it is even conceivably possible that someone as clinically retarded as you has not yet been absorbed into the supermassive black hole that is your own pointless existence? If that's what you mean, yeah, bingo."

"No, I meant why you were awake at like six in the morning," he rolls his eyes, as though you didn't just call him a dumb waste of space.

You decide to sit down because clearly this kid has the mental facilities of a lobotomized sheep and isn't going to go away. The grass is slick with dew. You're probably gonna look like you wet yourself when you get up later. Seriously, your life truly is a merry fucking explosion of rainbows and juicy unicorn farts.

"The sorry excuse that is my best friend found it necessary to drizzle his drool into my hair at five in the morning," you sigh and rub at your face.

"Haha, ew."

John plunks down with all the grace of motherfucking bambi on ice, all long limbs, awkward broad shoulders and complete cluelessness. His legs are endless. You try and fail not to notice. He drags a few bottles of water closer and carries on with what he was apparently doing before you rolled out of your tent.

The results of his inane productivity are stacked nearby, a dozen or so of semi-transparent globes full of water. You may have to commit cold-blooded murder for the sake propriety. It would be the only decent thing to do.

"Please tell me you didn't waste god knows how much time filling condoms with water. Because if you did, I may have to spectacularly throttle your insipid stunted ass into oblivion." 

That receives a particularly unimpressed eyebrow raise from John. "Why yes, Karkat. Obviously they are condoms. Because water balloons aren't a thing." With that he ties off the one he's holding and tosses it to you in a smooth underhanded lob.

You catch, fail and make a completely humiliating squeak as you fumble. It doesn't burst, thank fuck, but you sit holding it with your heart hammering.

John is laughing his ass off and just as you hurl it back at him, fully intending to get him right on his ridiculous mouth, he flops back into the grass, breathless. It sails clear over him and instead hits the only other sorry asshole awake at six in the morning, shuffling dazedly towards the toilets.

"Oh shit," you go.

John laughs even harder.

You hope he chokes.

*

That is how the others find the two of you four hours later. 

Around ten some of them begin to reluctantly stir and you're honestly flabbergasted that you still haven't obliterated John's annoying ass. Although at one point you had about half an hour of blessed silence after he got up and left. There were two cups of coffee in his hands when he returned. Absolutely shitty coffee, but goddamn, any coffee will do in a pinch. And fuck, did you need it. You burned your tongue knocking it back, but it was orgasmic all the same. The world made more sense suddenly. And John's existence in it, too.

Clearly it was to appease you with coffee. Especially when he gave you his cup, too. You have no idea why, because you've been consistently horrible to him the whole damn time. Maybe he's a stickler for emotional abuse. You don't even want to know.

By the time Dave wriggles out of his tent you've both been verbally abusing each other for nearly an hour over movies.

"Nicolas Cage?" You repeat. "Seriously. You're actually serious. Shit. Egbert did they drop you on your head when you slithered out of your mother in a flood of gore like a squealing pink abomination or is there something else wrong with you besides the obvious?" you wonder, because seriously.  _Seriously_. Nicolas Cage?

John points an accusing finger at you. "Hey asshole, simmer down, he was in City of Angels, too!"

Huh. Oh yeah. You remember that one being poignantly sad. "Okay. Point," you concede. "But he's still a godawful actor."

"No, man, Nic Cage is sweet, so sweet, you have no idea."

"You both have a horrible taste in movies," Dave says.

Both of you wheel around to look at him and just… stare. Dave looks like a freckled day-glo stork as he looms over you in nothing but a pair of tighty-whities and his shades. He slurps from a carton of apple juice.

"Ooh la la, mister Strider," John croons, playfully bumping his fist into his bare thigh.

Dave wakes up enough to look down his body. Considers the state of it for a moment. Then shrugs. "Born to be porn, that's me."

"What the hell, Dave," you scowl at him. Damn, you need a pair of shades yourself to behold at all exposed white skin without being permanently blinded. "Go put on some clothes."

He ducks back inside, impudently jutting his bony ass out at you both. John makes a noise like a dying giraffe. Comes back with a pair of shoes. Of course. The asshole. You give up. You don't know why you're even friends with this guy.

After parking his smug little butt down next to John all three of you sit in silence for a while as Dave finishes his juice box. It's already starting to get swelteringly hot, so you shrug out of your hoodie and pluck at the fabric of your shirt to allow some air at your torso. To avoid morphing into the world's most disturbing lobster Dave will be needing a bucket of sunscreen later, you think. It is highly unlikely that any of these morons have thought about bringing some, which is why you brought a bottle even though neither you or Gamzee need it.

Just as you're debating fetching it Dave spots John's hoard of water balloons.

"Bro, please tell me those aren't condoms," he says, gesturing with his straw.

John throws up both hands. " _Of course_  they're condoms Dave. Obviously I'm that much of an immature jackass," he rolls his eyes.

"Could've fooled me," you smirk.

There's a beat where John just looks at you, jaw set, and then another where his face twists into something you can  _tell_  doesn't mean anything good. Next he's hurled a water balloon at you. It erupts right against your chest, drenches you instantly, splattering water into your face and all over your shirt.

"Oh shit," Dave says succinctly.

John is sniggering and pointing like a five-year old until he sees your bared teeth. He sort of stills, eyes wide, like a deer caught in the flare of an oncoming train.

"Run, man, save yourself," Dave suggests. 

He's already scrambling.

You're going to absolutely, utterly and entirely destroy the little fucker. You tear after him. 

It's a mad race as you both weave between tents, jump over guy ropes and dodge lethargic festival goers. John is  _fast_. Faster than you and incredibly light on his feet, almost flying over most obstacles and able to feint at the slightest indication and for a moment, a single frustrating moment, it looks like he's going to outdistance you.

And then he trips spectacularly on a stake.

He goes down with a startled yelp and you all but leap on him. There's too many arms, knees and hair involved while you sit on his stomach and try to grab one of his wrists to pin him down. You get one, push it to the ground and use the other to pull up fistfuls of grass, rubbing them roughly into his hair. 

John, though, John is still laughing. As if you're not about to eviscerate him with your bare hands and string a goddamn tutu out of his steaming entrails. 

"Stop laughing you little shit, I'm trying to kill you!" You roar right into his face.

You get the second wrist and trapped next to his head, leaning to keep him down. Flat underneath you John just shrieks with laughter, incredulous peals of mirth. It's sort of goofy, with actual snorts in-between and it's free and unrestrained and absolutely beautiful.

you stumble.

trip.

and fall.

 

Hard.

 

You freeze. 

Which is, considering the position, a very dumb thing to do. You're close enough to see John's pupils expand as your shadow shields them from the sun. His eyes are this outrageous, near-solid bright blue and it catches you off guard, despite the fact that half the people you know have absurd eye colors. Both of you are breathing hard, panting after your sprint, his exhales fast and hot against your own parted lips. You can smell him. Grass and sunshine and him, that elusive something that is all male and you have to close your eyes against how good it is.

"I yield," John says, breathless laughter caught in his voice.

You blink. Remember to keep breathing. Before letting him up you make sure to rub an extra handful of grass into his hair until he splutters.

"You asslicker," you growl, but it comes out too soft to have much sting. Your heart is going a mile a minute and you want nothing more than to go home right this instant so you can forget everything that just happened.

Instead you both come to the stunned conclusion you all but wound up on the other side of the field and have to walk back like the lame pricks you are. Which you do, charged with tense silence no thanks to you. Just as you spot the familiar dome of your tent John sort of hisses and every treacherous nerve of your body pulses in alarm. You stop and turn, vibrating with worry, to see him rubbing at his eye under his glasses.

"Oh, fuck, did I actually hurt you?" you ask and you loathe how you can't keep the unease out of your voice.

Peeking between his fingers, he flashes another grin at you. "No, I just got something in my eye."

"Let me see," it's out of your mouth before you know it and  _what the fuck is wrong with you?_ And you wonder why the hell everything routinely goes to shit in your life. Pulling a random stake out of the ground and performing a triple backflip to impale yourself on it seems less painful. 

Thing is, John readily turns to you and wedges his glasses into his hair so you can have a better look. Helpful assmunch that he is and all. Still smiling, of course. His parents must've bounced him off the wall as a baby or something, feebleminded dolt.

You don't want to touch him.

So you stick both hands deep into the pockets of your jeans before leaning in slightly closer. A surge of panic races up your spine, he's too close and there's no way the extreme excess of emotions welling up within you aren't visibly dribbling out through your eyes, right there for everybody to see if they care enough to look. Your heart jackhammers frantically against the back of your throat. Everything aches, raw, fraught. You burn.

A blade of grass slides out of his hair and your eyes follow it involuntarily until it catches on his cheekbone. And then you're looking, honestly searching for a speck or something. Up close eyes are sort of strange, countless strings of fibrous tissue fringing the pupil. Your hesitant features are reflected back, remarkably clear. Wow. Your hair is disaster.

And this would be so much less awkward if John had the social aptitude to, you know, at least look skyward or focus on some neutral point on your face. Instead he's staring right back.

"Your eyes are sorta red," he says. "Like rust."

"Gee," you mumble, "I'm so flattered." 

"Mostly brown though," he adds.

"Thank you for this stunning revelation. I would never have guessed from staring at my ugly mug in the goddamn mirror every single day. My whole life is a lie."

His mouth fights another smile, lips curving until he bites down to keep it in check. Sunlight haloes him, washing along the edges of his face. It's been years since you've been this attracted to anyone. You are in so much trouble.

The spell shatters when an unfamiliar voice lashes over you both: "You two going to smooch anytime soon or just make goo-goo eyes all day?" 

To your credit, you simply drop your chin a fraction and frown at the interloper. "Egderp has something in his eye," you clarify and… pause.

She's awfully familiar. Shapely, strong-limbed. A mouth perfect for sneering, full enough to be sensual yet never really  _smiling_. Big blue eyes and long, shining hair that matches it. A bombshell bitch from hell.

Dread pools in your stomach.

"Come here, you dork," she commands and grabs John's chin, uses it to wrench him down to her height. You're all but elbowed aside.

John flails, mouth gaping like a fish in her squeezing grab. "H-hey!" he manages, squirms some more and then goes very, very still as she darts two fingers at his eye. Her fingernails are immaculate, wickedly sharp and as blue as her hair. She picks something off of his eyeball casual-as-you-please and nonchalantly flicks it away.

"There," she says, patting his cheek. "Who's awesome?"

"Thanks." John grumbles, massaging his jaw.

Mouth curling, she turns to you. "Long time no see, Karkat."

"Vriska," is all you're able to grit out.

"You two know each other?" John asks, knuckling at his watering eye. 

Vriska slaps his wrist without looking. "After a fashion," she allows, observing you from under long lashes. "How've you been?"

"Fucking spiffy," you retort, baring your teeth.

"Good to hear," she inclines her head almost graciously. "How about Terezi?"

"Blind and batshit insane," Dave interrupts. "Just the way we like her."

See. This is why Dave is your bro. He's a study in aloofness, standing next to you with his hands jammed into his pockets, slouching. Fully clothed. All the awards, A+, would bromance again, let's give him a fucking cookie. 

Vriska's gorgeous mouth curves. There's nothing sweet about it. "Yeah, I'll just  _bet_ ," she murmurs and the way it slips off her tongue is just obscene, diminishing Terezi and everything she meant to the two of you to something  _lewd_.

Nothing outwardly changes about Dave's expression, but you can tell he goes from relaxed to offensive in a nanosecond. There's no way for you to know what your face is like, but it's nothing good. You are showing everything Dave isn't and you don't give a single rotten fuck. If she starts in on Terezi you're going to take the Spiderbitch apart with your bare fucking hands.

"Don't be a bitch, Vris," John says and there's  _nothing_  goofy about him. Suddenly he's serious and almost… intimidating. His blue eyes are cold, his face set in long, but strong lines. You're… impressed, despite yourself. As soon as you realize it, John instantly ruins it by chuckling: "Oh, hey, that rhymed."

"Oh my god, bro." Dave sighs, but there might be a smile tucked away in the corner of his mouth. "You're such a doofus."

And that's that. 

*

Your shirt is still absolutely soaking. That is a thing that's still going on.

By now it's adjusted to your body temperature is is both warm and wet, as well as sticking to you. Also covered in grass and flecks of dirt from tackling a certain idiot.

Disgusting.

It's already hiked halfway up your torso before everything within you blares in alarm: other people can see you. You hesitate, lowering you arms to cover the skin you just bared. And then you decide, fuck it, fuck them, fuck the universe and every single goddamn alien in it, too. If Dave is allowed to prance around in a bloodcurdling pair of shiny white briefs (ironic, no doubt) and Roxy's nipples have free reign to be all sassy and pocky against the front of her top then why shouldn't you be allowed to take off your shirt? It's wet and gross and you don't want to make a mess of your tent.

The slick fabric wrings around your shoulders and when you manage to tug your head through your hair sticks up atrociously. 

Jade finds it absolutely necessary to cat-call at you: "Yeah baby, take it all off!" she waggles her eyebrows.

"Fuck you Harley," you return.

"If you're going to make overtures on my lady, it's only polite to invite me, too," Dave puts in, tipping his shades up to leer at you. "Our tent or yours?"

"Fuck you. Fuck you and fuck Harley. Fuck you both in the ear with a rake." 

"You sweet-talker, you," Jade makes a kissy face, "Zahhak has been working you.  _Hard_." 

Holy shit,  _ew_. The implications hurt your brain. Equius Zahhak is a mechanic most of the time and dabbles in obscure robotics projects on the side. You do grunt work, lifting, fetching, some of the cruder chores you can't fuck up too badly with. He's your boss and yeah, he drives you hard, but not in the sense that he's bending you over a table and- whoafuckshitjesuschristonapogosticknothanks bad images.  _Bad images_. All of the bad images. 

"Yeah Karkles," Vriska allows. "Last time I knew you were this little scrawny worm. You grew up." She tosses you a sultry wink and her tongue traces her top lip in a slow swipe.

John smacks her knee. "Stop it!" he hisses. She just laughs, tossing her blue hair over a shoulder. For some reason he's flushed red in the face. You blink at him, uncomprehending, and he looks up. The look on his face turns you right inside out.

Oh.

Just standing there, you feel your heart suddenly swell, too big for your chest to hold, cutting off your ability to breathe. John's Adam's apple bobs when he swallows and his brows are drawn in this strange sort of confused pain as his eyes leave yours, jump over the expanse of your torso, before veering decisively away.

You're blushing.

The look in John's eyes makes you ache, sort of hopelessly, and while you don't think you're misinterpreting it, you suddenly don't understand anything anymore.

*

Strains of music catch your attention.

It's sweeping and lively, accompanied by this lovely low yet sharp twang you think may be a bouzouki. It makes you think of home, this acute twist in your stomach that leaves you yearning. You decide not to go look, even though the multicultural stage is one of your favorites if only because you never know what you'll get next.  

The festival grounds are still fairly quiet, it's only a little past midday and only a few minor bands are performing. The Main Stage is still bare, but the crew is swarming all over the elaborate lighting set-up.

Your group sort of clots to an awkward stop and you hover at the edge, recognizing fully well that is probably one of the few -if not only- times everybody will be together. Everybody being the Strider twins, Jake, Jade, Roxy, Jane, John and Vriska. You came with Sollux, Aradia and Gamzee. Who actually is here, smiling beatifically at nothing. His face-paint makes him seem intimidating rather than utterly ridiculous and despite that still handsome. His hair is all over the place and you have to repress the urge to comb your fingers through it until is regains some semblance of order. 

You see a side of Dave you never have before. Having John with him makes him almost playful. They both have an inflatable weapon; Dave a horrible-looking medieval type sword and John a monstrously blue hammer that, get this, makes this hideous honking noise whenever he hits something with it.

You think Gamzee might be in love.

For the past half an hour they've been whopping one another and strifing, racing around and generally acting like immature nerds. You can't help but watch and note that put together they are a startling counterpoint to one another. John is a little shorter, broader in the shoulders and stronger in the arms and Dave slight, muscled like a dancer, but they're close enough to match. Where John is black and blue, Dave is white and red. Even their clothes echo this, Dave a red shirt with a stylized cogwheel pattern over his heart and crisp black jeans. John in blue, with two little fabric wings protruding from his back, his jeans worn and battered, faded white over the knees and frayed at the cuffs.

Granted, Dave manages to seem cool and tidy through it all while John is like an out-of-control puppy that'll wet himself if he doesn't get put into timeout soon.

Gamzee stares at the hammer like he wants to take it home and make sweet, depraved love to it. When John catches on and bops him over the head - _honk!_ \- you think he probably comes in his pants a little.

Sometimes your life is too bizarre even for you.

You love to see John move. Everything he does is imbued by a kind of fleet aeriform essence. When he leaps it's incredibly high, long legs effortlessly drawing up at apex and landing with nary a whisper of grass under his soles. He's lithe and free yet when Jake tackles him he holds up well against him, even though Jake probably outweighs him by thirty pounds of solid muscle. They roll over the grass, grappling, with Dave standing over them looking mildly amused, sword resting on his shoulder.

They're related, you remember. But the whole English-Harley-Egbert-Crocker history is too fucked up to keep straight. You know that Jade and John are siblings (sorta? only partly? you don't even know) while Jake and Jane are their cousins. They all have the same thick black hair and bright, toothy smiles. Jake is handsome. This is an utterly objective observation, even. He just is. Incredible body aside, Jake has that whole ripped Coca-Cola Light guy thing going on: rogueish smile, gorgeous face, intense gaze, the works. As long as he keeps his mouth shut. Jade is busty and rangy, with long wild black hair and bright green eyes. Jane is full and lovely, with a sweetness nobody could ever hope to match -as long as you don't piss her off that is (she honestly scares you a bit sometimes, you're not sure why). 

And John is…

John.

There's an echo of Jane's sweetness when he smiles and Jade's fearless charm in his eyes. Jake lingers around his jaw and shoulders, but other than that he just… you can't even put your finger on it.

All you know is that you can't take your eyes off him.

You want him.

Desperately.

The sort of feeling that leaves you sore and empty in the chest and burning low in your belly.

So you take the only viable option left to you:

you're not going to do anything about this, about him, about how it hurts to look at John, about how John had looked at you earlier.

 

Nothing.

You're going to do nothing at all.

*

Even as you watch on, the group splinters, dissolves into all directions. You are left with Sollux and Dirk, which is more or less expected. 

"So," Sollux says, which he shouldn't because it sounds ridiculous when he does. "Which stage do we go to?"

"I'm cool with whichever," Dirk says, shrugging easily. You really have no idea why this guy is even here, seriously. Probably either coerced into it like you did with Sollux or bribed with sexual favors by Jake English. 

Even as you are attempting to repress any visuals Jake comes hurtling past with John hot on his heels, dual-wielding his stupid hammer and Dave's sword.

"How old are these assholes again?" you wonder out loud.

"Twenty and nineteen," Dirk answers easily.

Fuck.

Holy fucking shit.

Holy shitting fuck.

Five years younger than you. Wow. Shit. 

"Hey, the age of consent eighteen," Dirk offers, voice perfectly devoid of any emotion. "Seventeen in Texas."

You have no idea whether you said that last out loud or you are just that stupidly transparent. Better not ask.

"Researched that, did you?" you return, lifting an eyebrow. "Before you bent him over?"

"Had to," he says, face blank. "Jake's younger than me and I'm not fucking around. I'm as serious as a heart attack about him. Also, I do most of the bending."

"Wow, shit," Sollux gags. "I did not need to know that."

"Liar," you say, smirking. 

"Fuck you, KK," he snarls.

"You wish," you return and to Dirk you add: "He's got a thing for twins."

"Oh my god,  _shut up_!" Sollux elbows you and yeah, that hurts, Sollux is basically all elbows, ribs and hips. That's gonna bruise.

"Me and Dave, huh?" and the way he  _says_  it, like it would be an option of it weren't for their respective partners, makes Sollux go so fucking red in the face it's a small miracle he doesn't give himself an aneurysm.

"I-need-to-go-to-the-bathroom," he yelps and scurries off. Even the back of his neck is red.

You and Dirk watch him go, impassive.

"… is he?" he trails off, fair eyebrows raising meaningfully above his pointy shades.

"Furiously gonna masturbate until his dick chafes?" you go on. "Yeah, probably."

"Okay," Dirk says. "Want to get something to drink?"

"Sure."

And off you go.

* 

As the day advances it grows progressively busier. A great thing about festivals is that everybody is so laid-back and doped on live music that the crowds don't give off this claustrophobic vibe. As long as you stay away from mosh pits there's no reason to get combative. You usually stick to the edges of the crowd anyway or scope out a spot of grass to lie down in and just soak up the music. 

You lose Dirk at one point, but catch sight of him later on with Jane, hands protectively on her shoulders as they cue up for food.

Sollux gets bored with you constantly being drawn to the multicultural stage. Maybe you are so fascinated by it because of the varied array of idiots who decided to squat over the genetic cesspool that is your ancestral heritage and took a piss in it (dad three parts Greek, one part Romani, mother from Mauritius and who the fuck knows what else thrown in there). It's not electronic enough to Sollux' tastes, so he ditches you.

Just as you cast about for a spot to park your ass, you notice Gamzee.

With John.

Okay, you're out of here. You promptly turn to go.

"Hey motherfuckin' best friend!"

Thanks Gamzee. Thanks a lot.

Reluctantly you reverse and head towards them.

Gamzee peers up at you through thick hanks of dark hair, grinning lazily. "Ready to witness some choice motherfuckin' miracles that be happin' all up in here?" He's got a dab of something at the corner of his mouth, sauce or whatever and you thoughtlessly lick at your thumb to wipe it away.

"Miracles are poop stains on god's underwear," you mutter, scrubbing intently. Gamzee lets you, scrunching up his nose. Little fissures appear in his face paint.

John is giving you both a weird look.

Is this really fucking awkward? Yeah, it's really fucking awkward. Everything about you and Gamzee is straight up weird, but he's just gonna have to deal. When you pull away and sit down next to him, Gamzee gives this loose, full-body shrug and gestures to John. "Nah, my brother. Just getting my chill on watchin' this motherfucker producing these crazy miracles and all."

You look to John, raising your eyebrows pointedly for further clarification.

For a heartbeat he quietly meets your eyes, almost shyly. Lifting his hands, he shows you his palms, fingers spread, rotating his wrists so you can see the backs of his hands, too. Then he suddenly reaches for you and you rear back violently, colliding into Gamzee. Who chuckles and rests one of his big hands on the small of your back to steady you. John waits until you've stopped recoiling and then completes the gesture, going for your… ear?

What.

He produces a coin.

You just stare.

Coin tricks. He's doing coin tricks?

John shrugs. "I can do cooler things with cards," he says, as he gracefully palms the coin and makes it disappear. Wiggles long fingers at you. 

He's got gorgeous hands.

Fuck your life.

Seriously though. They're strong hands, but he's got elegant fingers and he gestures constantly, conversing as much with motions as with words. Extremely dextrous, too. His hands are empty and he's wearing a freaking t-shirt. You intellectually know it is a matter of sleight of hand, but he's good, making it disappear, re-appear and once even fishes it out of the pocket of Gamzee's loose pants. It's a stupid thing to be impressed by, but he does it very convincingly.

"Cup your hands," he instructs you, holding his own out as example. 

After a slight hesitation, you do so, as if you were cradling a firefly.

"Make sure there's no gaps," he adds, so you press harder, sealing your skin together.

Your hair stands on end when he rests his own over yours, very carefully. Blue eyes regard you from under dark lashes. He's blushing. You can taste your heartbeat on the tip of your tongue.

"Your hands are empty, right?" he prompts, voice low.

"Uh," you go, staring at his mouth. You blink and frown. "Yeah?"

"Sure about that?"

You consider, focus on your sweaty palms. "Yeah."

He leans forward, blows against the seam of your thumbs, bracketed by his own. Hard. His breath is hot and it tickles. You shiver.

"Check again," he says, rocking back and smirking like the devil. His hands go with him.

Dumbfounded, you look down at your own, still tightly cupped together. Slowly, almost apprehensively, you let your fingers curl open and peer inside. Gamzee is leaning over your shoulder, curious.

There's a coin resting in your hands.

"Motherfucking miracles, my brother," Gamzee says softly, almost awed.

Okay. Yeah. Wow.

"How…?" you look at John, who's smiling in delight.

"A magician never tells," he says, tapping the side of his nose.

*

After that John keeps touching you.

Bumping shoulders, poking the back of your head, softly kicking your ankle. Basically proving that he can still be first class pest and asshole. But touching you all the same. And. Once. Just. Just your arms touching, standing next to each other. You think that that wasn't even on purpose, you'd all been crammed close together near the barricades as you gazed up at the stage. He'd been warm and his skin was soft, wonderful against yours. When you'd gotten jostled even closer he didn't react, so you stayed, near enough to  _feel_  him sing along even if it was so fucking loud near the massive speakers you couldn't actually hear him. After, he'd held on to the back of your shirt as you all tried to get clear of the dispersing crowd.

And when you talk he watches your mouth.

Not that he follows you around all day, but he's there often. With Dave or Jade, and once even by himself, for no apparent reason at all other than to ask if he could see your 'bracelet tattoo thingies'.

Around both your wrists circle two black lines perfectly parallel with one another, playing card suits running in between them: a red heart, a black spade, a pink diamond and gray clubs alternating in sequence. You had to close your eyes when he held your left hand between his own, maneuvering you to turn it so he could chase the design around completely with the tip of his finger. 

Having done that and pronouncing it 'cool' he darted off again, leaving you to watch his retreating back. Wondering why you are incapable of sustaining an ordinary type of sexual attraction (i.e. fuck him senseless because goddamn that stupid dork is beautiful). You're not going to lie, fucking him is pretty high up your 'please, please please let it happen please' list right now. That's difficult enough to deal with all by itself.

Instead, on top of the maddening flood of hormones, you tend to fall in love, too. 

*

Everything is warm and luminescent around the edges. Radiant and slow. Up on the Main Stage the first band of the evening is playing and while it's not the sort of music you'd put on your iPod, the slightly hoarse croon of their lead singer is perfect right now.

Jane had a few beach towels with her and the lot of you are spread out on them as you all gobble up overly priced pizza from one of the food stalls. It's pretty good pizza, too. As per tradition, you're sharing with Gamzee. And, also as per tradition, you swap a slice with Sollux and get a pepperoni for the vegetable and pineapple mix. You're relieved they offered vegetarian, because while Gamzee is okay with you picking the meat off in a pinch, it's obvious his appetite is much better when it's straight-up vegetables. After devouring his own half and your leftovers he settles down on his back with his head on your thigh. Sighs happily. You card the fingers of your clean hand through his hair in response.

"Can I ask you something?" John says softly. He's on the grass, long legs stretched out before him, crossed at the ankle. He glows in this light, skin golden from the sun, dark hair gleaming. Jade threaded little white flowers in it earlier, but it doesn't look as ridiculous as it should. You have no idea how to handle what you feel when you look at him, right next to you.

You stare at him, waiting. Observe how he catches his bottom lip with his teeth, holds it. 

"Free country," you say after a moment of silence. It's obvious what's on his mind.

"Uh," he goes, darting a glance sideways nervously, once, twice and then locks on your hand in Gamzee's hair. "Are you and-" impotent hand-flapping. Dumbass. 

Suppressing a smirk, you pretend to be slow on the uptake. Let him work for it. Seriously, if he can't say it he should keep his goddamn nose out of your business. As well as his touching. "Are me and… what?" you echo, voice blank.

"You and Gamzee."

"What about me and Gamzee?" you prompt, mildly.

"Are you two, er." 

"Are we what?" 

"You two fucking?" Vriska butts in, teeth gleaming white between her parted lips. 

"Jesus, Vriska," John snaps, poking her. "No, well. I actually meant to ask if you're… together? Boyfriends?"

Against you leg you can feel Gamzee shake silently as he holds back laughter. You pinch his nose shut in response. He flails. Your fingers are covered in white face paint. After a moment's consideration you wipe it on his shirt.

"Aw, motherfucker," he mumbles.

"No. We're... close," you allow. It's a shitty answer for something far more complicated than that. Worlds of complicated. It gets even more complicated when you see relief flood John's face. Instead you retaliate by asking what's you've been pretty much brooding on yourself all day: "You and Vriska?"

John snorts and shakes his head, grinning.

Vriska leans over him towards you to whisper as loud as she possible can: "Popped his cherry, though."

The whole group turns to look at John as one. 

" _Oh my god_ , Vriska!" John squeaks, flushing so red it's painful to watch. Even his ears and neck flush. "I hate you!" he covers his face and groans into his hands.

"Aaaaaaaaw, John," she just coos, kissing the top of his head. "No, you don't."

 

While you don't miss the opportunity to laugh loudly at his misery, you privately think that maybe their situation isn't so different from yours and Gamzee's.

*

"It's gonna rain," John says suddenly.

You, Sollux and Jade look at him.

Eyes heavenward, he doesn't seem to be looking so much as he's… sensing. The sun is swollen and low, the sky a sweet, cloudless gradient of blue and orange as far as you can see.

"Aw, poop," Jade grumbles. "I don't have a jacket with me."

"Nobody has a jacket with them," Sollux snorts. "It's way too hot for that."

"What are you? The fucking meteorologist on duty?" you ask John, frowning.

"Don't knock my sage weather forecast, dude," John says, grinning.

Jade nods. "He's always right, Karkat. You'll see." 

"How do you even know?" Sollux demands, skeptical.

"Eh," John shrugs. "I just sort of… do? The air feels and smells different."

"Holy shit," you say. "What a heap of putrid bullshit." 

Another shrug. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

*

It's raining.

"Well fuck," Sollux says.

Both of you stare up in disbelief as wet drops splatter on your faces. John skips up to you, grinning like a brain addled imp.

"Don't you dare," you warn.

"Told ya bro," he gloats and yelps when you punch his shoulder.

*

As the sky becomes a wash of stars peeking through the rain eases to a soft, almost gentle sprinkle.

Everything smells as though the earth exhales in relief after a punishing hot day, dusty yet somehow fresh. Sand and grass and minerals. Your shirt is plastered to you, your hair heavy dark spirals hanging in your eyes. It feels good. You let it come down on you, tipping your chin up and breathing deeply like everybody else. Water runs along your throat as you watch the people around you.

You're not a big fan of humanity in general, even if you're a part of it. Perhaps especially because you're a part of it. Basically everybody is a pointless crop of spectacularly subnormal lifeforms. You being the prime example on how to fail at existing. 

This very moment, however, is oddly beautiful.

Surrounded by complete strangers and your friends, you feel the music thrum through you, a heavy rolling beat crying for movement. You don't dance, but you feel it in your bones all the same. Instead you watch others. They grind, hips rolling and backs bowing, smiles on their faces, eyes closed. Alive and glad for it.

Seeing Roxy who actually  _can_  dance, try and teach Sollux, who  _can't_ , makes you shake your head. They bonded earlier today over coding and hacking. It seems Roxy decided to adopt his pathetic ass. Your friend is about as limber as a goddamn pinecone, what with the curve of his spine being moulded to the shape of his computer chair. It's even better when Aradia joins in, gripping his belt and pulling him back into her to try and have him follow her movements. They make a Sollux sandwich in the middle of the crowd.

How is it that Sollux Captor always ends covered up in bitches? No fair. 

Dave is a surprisingly good dancer and he's gorgeous together with Jade. You can't bear to look at them for too long, it's too intimate, his hands flowing along the easy sway of her body, her hands gripping his fine blonde hair almost brutally. Faces close. His shades are pushed up and they breathe each other in. You don't have to know them to see that they're in love.

You want that.

You want that so very badly.

You want someone to look at you like you're the only person on the whole planet that can make them feel that way.

Joke being that the only person who ever might have, however briefly, was blind.

Yeah.

Okay, yeah, this is starting to depress you. To rub salt in your wounds, because fuck it, how much worse can it get, you allow yourself to search for him.

John's  _not_  a good dancer. 

You're devastatingly surprised. Not.

He's not sexy or graceful. Or anything at all besides goofy. All the same you love watching him. He dances like he pretty much does anything else: to a beat nobody else seems to hear but him. Part of his mercurial manner of moving remains. Still light on his feet. He smiles and laughs and bumps into others. Way too much wind-milling with his arms involved, too. He nearly brains two people in quick succession and you roll your eyes to yourself.

But you're also smiling.

Looking at John makes you smile and you hate it, hate it because you can't have him.

You don't even know why you feel as strongly as you do about this idiot. Having him pinned and laughing under you felt like he punched right through your ribs and into your heart. He can deal with you being a raging asshole to him and though he cannot match it, he'll spew insults of his own back. He's a goofball and a dork, has the worst taste in movies and music and you actually like that he realizes this on some level and gives not a single flying fuck that he is.

At times you simultaneously want to punch him and kiss him. It's insane how he gets under your skin, it's an itch you can't even scratch and fuck, fuck it, god fucking damn it, you want him.

You want to know what the arch of his neck tastes like, how his hair feels caught between your fingers and the strength of those long legs wrapped around your waist. You want the sensation of his mouth opening against yours, his beautiful hands on your skin.

You want him to look at you, only you, you want it so bad it strangles you.

You want him.

And you can't have him.

Because you're going to do nothing at all.

*

Well past midnight you decide to go for one last drink before heading back to your tent. All your friends are still out there, but you don't dance and have successfully managed to be an absolute idiot and depress yourself. You've been looking around for Gamzee, but he went and disappeared after pizza and you probably don't even want to know what he's doing. And with whom. Plural, possibly. Having him wrap his long arms around you and…  _hold_  you, for just a minute… it'd help you pull yourself back together.

Sleeping on this will make you feel better, you know. You're tired and have had quite the emotional upheaval messing with you. It's not a good combination. 

The rain is still hazing down. It's quite beautiful, creating these sparkling clouds of color as they pass through light sources. The music recedes some as you go, but the throbbing beat still crawls up your spine. People are dancing everywhere in the rain, water flying off the ends of their hair as they toss their heads.

Your fingers are clumsy, wet and cold as you attempt to fish your wallet out of your back pocket.

"Karkat!"

John splashes up to you. He's drenched.

Right now he's the last person you want to talk to. Nonetheless you stop, swallowing. Raise your brows in a pointed 'what'.

"Are you leaving already?" he asks. His voice does not manage to be light enough to sound blasé about it. That he has apparently been aware of you to notice you leaving and doesn't want you to even if all you're good for is standing there glowering, tugs at something raw and sore in your chest.

"It's late enough to be early in the morning. And I'm really fucking tired. So yeah, I was thinking of getting one last drink before heading back. Want anything?" you offer, because he's put up with enough of your foul attitude today to deserve it. And because you want to treat him.

"Oh," John ducks his head and shakes it. "No, thanks. I'm fine."

Well then. Never fucking mind.

You shrug. "Fine," and turn to go, only to find you cannot. John is holding your hand, anchoring you. "What?" you snap, because really? Really? You can't deal with all this touching and knowing that this dweeb is apparently attracted to you, but unsure if he realizes he is and whether this counts as flirting or is just a John-thing and even if it  _is_  flirting the whole nope-not-going-to-do-anything deal still stands. Fuck. 

"Hey," he goes, stepping closer and dipping his head to peer at your face. "You alright?"

God. His eyes are stunning. Blue and unguarded. His face is beaded with rain, the drops winking in a flare of light. By now his shirt doesn't leave anything to the imagination anymore, slick against him. He's got great shoulders, a tad too wide for him still. Two or three years and he'll have grown into them. You want to kiss him so bad your mouth prickles.

Wrenching your eyes away you nod and back off. "Peachy," you mutter as you abscond like a bat out of hell. You really need that fucking drink. "See you."

Angry, you jerk your wallet out of your pocket. Scrabble for it as it slips between your fingers and curse loudly when it lands with a wet plop in a puddle. "FUCK!" you snarl and reach for it.

John is quicker. He comes up as you go down. Your mouth slams into the top of his head, hard.

You both yowl in pain. 

At first you can't even taste the blood because your teeth are absolute agony. You clap both hands over your mouth in an irrational surge of panic they're gonna drop clean out of your skull. They don't, but everything feels like a raw wound. It's then that you recognize the thicker, warmer trickle down your chin as blood. 

A noise escapes you.

John is babbling. "Fuck, fuck, I'm so sorry, fuck. Shit. I didn't. I'm sorry. God."

You blink rain and involuntary tears out of your eyes.

"Let me see," he tells you, taking both your wrists and pulling gently.

You resist because instinct tells you to press against your injury, cover it, even if it makes the pain worse. Eventually you allow him, sucking frantically as the lack of pressure allows for a fresh flood.

"Holy shit," John hisses. Mops at your chin with the heel of his hand.

You wince, always markedly aware of your blood and who's in contact with it. "Don't," you manage thickly.

An eyeroll. His whole hand is a mix of your blood mingling with rain. It runs down his arm and puddles in the inside of his elbow. "Dude, I know you're clean. Dave told me you're a total bleeding heart and donate blood all the fucking time."

"Exactly," you mutter.

"Wow, fuck you," he says. "I'm perfectly healthy."

You're still on edge about it. Not that you do not believe him, but you're really committed to donating. There's a moment where John realizes you are anxious and his careful ministrations still. John is a virtual stranger to you and it's too early for this level of trust, but you do trust Dave's judgement. Going from that, you know John would not lie about this. You hesitate. John is still there, fingers at the edge of your jaw, face neutral. No pressure. A leap of faith then. A possibly fatal one, if you are wrong.

John is watching you closely enough that he doesn't even need you to say it. His expression is very sober when dabs at your mouth. His thumb pushes against your bottom lip and his brows draw together in worry.

Holy shit that stings.

"You got a seriously split lip, dude," he explains. "I'm going to take you to the Red Cross."

"Fuck that," you mumble. "What are they going to do? Glue it?"

John purses his lips at you in disapproval. "Stay here," he says. It's a command. He rushes off.

You stay. Swallow a mouthful of spit-diluted blood. Yuck.

Back with a bottle of water, he carefully sluices it over your mouth, chin and throat. Lets you take a sip. Your lip is too tender to make contact with the neck so more water goes down your front. Even rinsing your mouth and spitting it out hurts like hell.

Cupping our face, John tips your head towards the light, studies the cut. At first. As his index gently traces the split, his eyes find yours. "I'm really sorry," he repeats. For some reason he's whispering.

"S'fine," you whisper back. Your voice trembles slightly. "You really got a thick fucking skull, John Egbert."  

He huffs a small laugh. You feel the corner of your mouth twitch in response, causing another twinge. Silence then. He's still holding your face and his eyes never left yours. 

"Karkat," he says and kisses you.

John kisses you and you flinch away.

Because it hurts, literally, the pressure against your lip a spike of agony. Because it is the last thing you expected. Because it's John. Because it hurts.

You both stare at each other. John looks as shocked as you feel. The rain has spiked his lashes together and water slides down his cheeks like tears. There's a smear of blood across his mouth. Your blood. You can't stop looking at it. When he licks his lips, you make a small noise despite yourself. You can feel his shuddered exhale against yours. Ever so slowly he tips his chin towards you. Warning you. Warning you he's going to kiss you again and giving you a choice.

You choose.

It still hurts. You bleed. You don't give a single fuck. John kisses you, careful and hungry, the heat of his mouth a searing brand against yours. You hiss in a pained breath and grab onto the front of his shirt to hang on to or pull him closer, you're not quite sure yet, but when he parts his lips and laps at the split you haul him closer.

This is absolutely the stupidest thing you've ever done.

Nothing ever felt so good.

He tastes like you, coppery and vivid, your blood in his mouth. Of rain and the nightsky. And when he opens his mouth under yours as you kiss deeper he only tastes of himself, clean and intimate. You lick at the inside of his mouth and he still holds your face cradled, as though drinking you in. Against your knuckles caught in his shirt you can feel his heart hammering, frantic and harsh, matching your own. You flatten your hand over it, trapping the pulse in the palm of your hand as you back off to breathe for a moment. John pulls away after placing a small kiss on the cut -one, two and then another.

His eyes are lidded and he pants softly as he rests his forehead against yours. Those glasses of his press into the bridge of your nose, your lip throbs in complaint and it's far from perfect, but his thumb strokes along your cheekbone and it's killing you.

The hand resting over his heart stays where it is, but you let the other slide down towards his stomach. The muscles convulse under your touch. You curl it around his side, thumb hooked over the sharp jut of his hipbone, your other fingers along the edge of his jeans.

You study each other for a moment, his eyes curiously pleading. You swallow, nose against his temple for a moment before pressing into him again, fingers digging into his skin.

When your mouths meet again, it's different. John gets a hand in your hair, bunches it between his fingers and uses it as a handle to angle you the way he wants to. Slants you so he can drag his tongue along the seam of your lips, warm and slick and insistent until you part them in surrender. You actually fucking tiptoe for him as he slowly fucks your mouth with his tongue and, holy shit, it's  _on_.

Sliding your hand down over his ass you use it hoist him closer, your thigh between his. He chokes. You bite at his lips and grind up. He forgets to breathe and you can feel the physical proof of his arousal against your stomach.

"Fuck," he manages, pulling away to kiss the side of your throat.

"Yeah," you return and you don't recognize your own voice; rough, low and shaken.

"Uhm," he goes, like the most eloquent tool in the damn shed he is. "D-do you- uuuhm."

Oh, god. Oh, fuck. Oh, shit.

John swallows and murmurs into your neck: "Want to?"

God. Fuck. Shit.

You nod.

*

The two of you all but run through the rain, but have to slow at the checkpoints to flash your bracelets. You don't hold hands and slow to a brisk walk once you get to the camping grounds.

Your heart feels like it's between your goddamn ears. This thick, meaty pulsing that blinds and deafens you.

You don't talk.

You're absolutely freaking out.

This isn't you. This is basically the last damn thing you'd do. You're not in the habit of fucking random cute strangers. Not to mention this is a Very Bad Idea. And you simply don't fucking  _get_  it. Why would John want you?  _You_ , of all people. You're not exactly tall, dark and handsome here. Only dark. You have these permanent bags under your eyes that a goddamn year of sleeping can't fucking fix and your hair looks like you got humped by some misguided hurricane. You have about as much mysterious allure as a potato and it can't be your winning personality, either. 

You've been purposefully mean to him, spat names at him, made fun of him and ignored him at turns.

This is a mistake.

But you think it is one you  _want_  to make. One you'll regret forever  _not_  making if you chicken out. And that really fucking scares you.

Suddenly you are at the cluster of tents. You go for yours, if only because the idea of having sex anywhere near where Vriska Serket sleeps wigs you out. Also it's familiar, as much as it can be, and you need something to ground you. Kicking off your shoes, you zip it open and tumble inside. 

John says: "Hang on," and disappears from view.

Stunned, you sit on your sleeping bag, dripping rain, and think  _he's not going to come back_. You rub both hands over your face, hiding from your own idiocy, and flinch at the pressure on your mouth.

"Still hurts?" 

You jump. John's back already, ducking inside and taking his shoes off. It's all you can do to stare at him, marvel at how he's here with you, wet and wonderful and scaring you. You don't think you can do this. Shit, you can't do this. John drops something on Gamzee's sleeping bag and your heart seems to do a pirouette up into your nasal cavity when you realize it's a strip of condoms. 

John sees you looking. "Vriska's going to give me hell for nicking them. I didn't, er. Bring. Anything."

You facepalm.

"What?! It's not like I expected to-to-"

"Me neither," you mutter.

Silence. Normally you enjoy the sound of rain pattering on the canvas, but now it only underscores how you're both just sitting there. The overhead flare of the camping grounds cast translucent shadows onto John's skin. It paints ghostly rain on his features. He's still beautiful to you and the sensation of his tongue pushing into your mouth seems to linger.

"John," you manage.

He tilts his head, scoots closer and settles. Looks attentively at your face.

"We. We should talk," the words fall like stones from your lips. "About this."

There's a moment where you can't read him, where he's someone you've known for barely a day and utterly remote. And then John's mouth twitches, splits into that goofy grin that flashes his overbite. He bobs his head to a nonexistent rhythm. " _Let's talk about sex, baby, let's talk about you and me, let's talk about all the good things and the bad things that may be. Let's talk about sex. Let's talk ab_ -MRF!"

"Okay, shut up," you growl, pushing your hand in his face. "Time out for the idiot. That's you by the way."

You can feel him smile against your palm. And, damn him, you're smiling, too. You keep smiling when he gently nips at the heel of your hand, curls long fingers around your wrist and pulls it away. "Hey," he says looking you right in the eyes.

"Hi," you return. 

"Look," he says, serious now, kneeling close enough that you have to spread your thighs to accommodate his knee between yours. "I've never, er." Hair-carding. It stands up spectacularly in wet spikes. "With a boy. Ever."

"Oh."

"But," he ploughs on. "I really want to kiss you again."

You blink. 

John catches his own bottom lip between his teeth, worries it. "Can I?" You're nodding before your brain has a chance to stage a revolt to preserve the shreds of your already battered sanity. Kissing you can do. Fuck. Yes. "Cool," John says and you have to stop yourself from smacking him, the absolute dork.

A dork like him shouldn't kiss like he does, holy shit. John rests a hand on your thigh for balance, leans in, and licks at your mouth. Laves at the split, purposeful, slow, wet stripes that part your lips wider with every pass. You're so doped on endorphins that the pain merely adds a delicious sharp edge of everything. Before you know it he's in your lap, both hands clutching fistfuls of your hair, kissing you like he  _needs_  to, like it's all he ever wanted.

For someone who's arguably straight he's really into this.

Or you.

It's that that does it. The notion that it's  _you_  who does this to him. You and you alone. That and feeling him shiver. His ribcage feels almost delicate through his wet t-shirt, you can feel his uneven breathing when you frame him between your palms. As you move them towards his chest you can feel surprising strength caught under the skin. His whole body hitches as you pass over his nipples and he leaves your mouth to bite at your jaw.

He lets you take off his shirt. 

God. The sight of his torso as he lifts his arms for you takes your breath away. John has gone very still as you look at him, his hands resting on your shoulders. You touch his waist, where's he so very slender and then higher, his chest, his shoulders, feeling his muscles tremble as you do. Drag your open mouth down his throat towards his collarbone. Bite him like he bit you, hard enough to mark. John makes a noise, needy and goddamn perfect. Dip your head and suck at his nipple and this time he's loud, almost shocked, like he didn't expect it to feel as good as it does. His back hollows as you tug at it, sharp enough to send a jolt through him, then soothe with lazy suckles. Drawing back a little you watch it grow hard as it prickles against the cold air.

By now you can feel him again, hell you can  _see_  him, hard and heavy in his rain-ruined jeans. He's grinding slightly, almost involuntarily, his mouth an open wet bruise from kissing as he gasps for air. God, fuck, you need to kiss that mouth again, need to feel those soft noises on your lips. You do. Once again his glasses get in the way and after a moment John snags them off and tosses them aside negligently. He goes for the edge of your shirt and you raise your arms for him. It's his turn to look. 

It would be easier if John didn't have such an expressive face, because right now you can tell it's the first time he's been with another guy. Long fingers skate across the ridges in your abdomen, follow the 'v' of muscle right above your hips, trace the trail of dark hair that goes from your navel down into your pants. You can't tell whether he likes what he sees or if this is too weird for him.

And then he simply drops his hand on your straining erection, gives an experimental squeeze. You groan, can't help it, low from your chest.

"Same parts different model," John says, grinning against your cheek. He's still touching you and you're so goddamn sensitive from being half out of your mind with arousal for the past hour while stuck in wet pants.

"Jesus," you growl. "You deficient ignoramus. What the fuck did you expect? Tentacles?"

"Hey, you never know," John snickers and you'd hit him, but he's at your mouth again, covering it with these achingly sweet little kisses you can't help but respond to.

You wrap around each other. John hooks one arm around your back, lets the other free so he can touch you, fingers sketching around where your mouths connect, to leave and find your collarbone, your nipples, swiping the pad of his thumb over them. You have both hands full of his ass, shamelessly drawing him into you as you grind up in counterpoint. Arching, you grip him harshly, edging him closer until your dick presses against his.

John makes that noise again, surprised and shaken. You love that noise, so you roll your hips until John seems to crumble in your hands, clinging to your shoulders, his hot exhales dusting the curve of your ear.

Both your pants come off, you're unsure when or how, you only know it feels like living heat against you, his stomach hollowing when you palm him through the thin fabric of his boxers. Which are this loose sort, with the Ghostbusters logo over the crotch, it's so ridiculous, so him, you laugh breathlessly until his fingers outline you in your boxer briefs. Your cock has settled along your hip, the fabric damp at the head. John draws his index through it, slicking it against the tip of your dick, coaxing more. His finger trails precome when he lifts it away. You keen, head tipping back.

Being loud is your modus operandi and this is no different during sex and you're pretty sure the whole goddamn camping can hear you and you really don't give a damn and John is watching you like you're the most amazing thing ever, not caring if you are being loud either and, oh,  _oh god_.

You want to get closer, get your cocks together and grind against him. You're scrabbling at his hips and thighs, but he's kissing your forehead and getting off your lap what the fuck is  _wrong_  with him? 

Oh. Condom. Right. Jesus, John,  _hurry_. 

It's sort of silly, because he's still got his boxers on -as do you- and he's had a mouthful of your blood earlier, but it's  _not_ , all the same. It matters that he wants to be safe for the both of you. Plus he has to pull himself out of his underwear to get it on properly and damn, okay, he's got a nice dick.

Next thing he's back in your lap. You're kneeling still, him sitting at the very top of your thighs, straddling, the muscles in his back flexing as you move into each other. You cling to him, afraid of falling if you let go, down over the edge of the world. You're close, closer than you expected, but he's against you and above you, his tongue sliding along yours, body rolling. Digging in, you draw your hands down his back, fingers clawed. 

John yanks your head back and plants his teeth at the front of your throat in response. Bites, hips pistoning relentlessly against yours. You arch, groaning, feel his cock jut against yours hard.

You go rigid, shout against the force of your orgasm, utterly vulnerable.

Hands hold you, rake your hair out of your eyes, massage the nape of your neck. You shudder, tuck closer to him, head reeling from the intensity. John's still fucking against you and the fabric of your boxer briefs almost chafes, you're that tender and yet still hard somehow. Muscles tense and flex under your arms as he moves, panting loudly against your neck, his voice in it, a maddening, gorgeous ' _aaah, aaah, aaah_ '. Overstimulated you whine softly under your breath, both hands on his hips, babble at him, his name, encouraging him, begging for something you can't name.

John comes silently but for a quaking gasp, teeth scraping over your Adam's apple and you sob as a second, shaky orgasm wracks you. It's more sensation than anything, a mere echo of your first, but it leaves you wrung out and weak.

Both of you sit there for a moment. Your shorts are soiled, it's disgusting, but John is tiredly nuzzling against your shoulder and that's all you want right now. His skin is salty under your mindless kisses, smarting your broken lip.

Eventually you part long enough to kick away your underwear and you mop with your pair at the mess covering your crotch while John takes off the condom. Done, you lie down in each other's arms, catching your breath and allowing the sweat to cool on your skin.

It's still raining, a continuous pattering that lulls you.

You're so tired.

There's nothing you need so much as to fall asleep right here with John against you, nudging kisses into the hair at your temple. You realize you're naked together and that John has noticed this, too. A spread hand runs along the bare expanse of skin from your thigh to your ribs and back again, lovely and innocent until he reaches and cups your ass, kneads.

He's slow about it, no hurrying. Explores you, the line of your spine and the dip of your navel, the corner of your eyebrows and the back of your knees. His knuckles along you cock. Despite yourself, you gasp, legs parting.

This guy has stamina. If he'd let you, you'd fall asleep right away, but his petting rekindles your own interest. It's more all encompassing now, this sweet tingle charging your whole body instead of a crawling ache in your groin. 

You could hate him for this.

For the way he noses against your jaw until you obediently tip your head back and stretch your shoulder away, elongating your neck. For the way he just rests his face there for a while, breathing you in, before laying down a line of kisses. For brushing his fingers through your hair until it all spills onto the mattress to one side, gently picks the remaining tendrils stuck to your skin with sweat away to join the rest. For nipping gently with his teeth, suckling and stroking your neck and everything nearby -ear, jaw, shoulder.

It feels too much like making love and too little like fucking and it confuses the freaking hell out of your misguided, romantic heart. You're not stupid enough to actually believe anything it wants you to believe, but you're slowly losing your mind here. 

It takes you longer to get fully hard again, your dick is too damn tender, and even then you hover at this razored edge of being too overstimulated. The sensation of his erection sliding against yours, the muscles in his ass flexing as you palm his buttocks, it's fucking gorgeous. Blearily you think about how desperately you want to fuck him, sink into him, a leg draped over your shoulder maybe, and just loose yourself in him. You don't ask, even as you put on a condom. Already you care too damn much. His first time with a guy should be in a bed with his boyfriend.  

You come together a second time, a tangled mess on your sides. Completely wrapped around each other, lips connected, legs entwined, arms cradling and hips rocking together. It's dark, you can barely see him, but, god, you can  _feel_ him. The movements come naturally, sleepy and instinctive, both of you slick with sweat and John' exhales grow airy, desperate, his fingers bruising where he clutches at you. You can feel exactly when the orgasm seizes him. John groans your name, shuddering as wet heat streaks your stomach.

"Fuck." Pressing a kiss to his open mouth you murmur, "You're shaking so damn hard."

John's nearly sobbing, absolutely shattered. "Please," he manages after a while and you nod, wordless. Your release is slow, heavy and exhausting, your head tucked in the curve of his shoulder. 

Thoughts skate uselessly across the blank slate that is your mind. You can feel your heartbeat in the tips of your fingers and your toes have gone numb. John takes care of the mess and then he struggles to get the sleeping bag up your body. You watch from under drooping eyelids, smile a little when he crawls in with you.

Hands slide through your hair, clumsy with post-coital haze. 

There's a really raw moment where both of you study each other, rather thoughtfully. Just as you think of closing your eyes because it's too weird, John kisses the tip of your nose, breaking the tension.

You close your eyes anyway and are asleep before you know it.

*

When you open them again your body feels heavy, your eyes itch with exhaustion and your bottom lip thumps in agony. Your right side feels cold and sort of drafty, as though something warm pressed against you was recently removed.

This is, of course, exactly the case.

In the cool gray glow of early dawn you can see the arch of John's back, the knobs of his spine working under his skin as he fumbles around. There's angry red welts at either side of his shoulders where you tore at him in your desperation. You blink, knuckle at your eyes and become aware that Gamzee is now occupying the other sleeping bag, dead to the world. 

John is… looking around for something. His clothes you realize. A cold, sinking feeling wraps around your heart, squeezes. It was a one-nightstand. You have no disillusions about this. Except this is a big, fat lie because you're hurt and angry, idiot that you are.

"Leaving already?" you ask, voice gravelly and thick from sex and a lack of sleep.

John jumps, darts a look over his shoulder at you.

"Ah, no. I was-" his sheepish look sort of crumples in on itself, his eyes flick down. "Do you. Do you want me to?" That last comes out uncertain and a lot more fragile then it has any right to. You realize he's upset. Your heart swells with pity and self-loathing that even for a moment you've made him believe that you don't want him around any longer now that you've fucked. "I'm not really sure if there was a sort of etiquette for… for…  _UHM_. That sticking around was not done or whatever, hahah. Yeah," he turns away from you, reaches for his pants. 

"No!" you lurch up, grabbing his shoulder. 

John freezes. 

Mr. Smooth, it's you. Sure. Way to make everything awkward.

You clear your throat. "I mean, you don't have to go," you sound almost churlish, but this is so fucking strange and you're way out of your depth and no amount romcoms could've ever prepared you for the emotional trainwreck this is. 

"Oh," John goes and his smile is back like it was never gone. "Okay."

At one point you must've put on boxers, John as well, and you can't even fucking remember when. Good thing, because as comfortable as you are around Gamzee, you highly doubt John is. 

After a minute of quietly sitting together and pawing sleepily at your faces, you ask: "So where  _were_  you going?"

"Nowhere. I was actually kind of hungry and cold and wanted to put on my shirt, but I think Gamzee is laying on it."

"Sorry about that."

A shrug. "S'okay, it's his tent, too."

"… yeah. I think your shirt is probably still wet and disgusting anyway, you numbskull."

"Oh yeah."

There's not much light to go by and you don't want to wake Gamzee, so you make a disaster of your luggage as you fish around for a shirt to give to him. Grinning his appreciation John pulls it on, huddles the fabric happily around him before leaning in and kissing your cheek.

You blush.

Because you're brain addled piece of waste like that. Seriously, let's cover each other in sperm and hump like horny bunnies, but heavens forbid if he kisses your cheek after.

Dammit.

You rub at your nose to hide the flush and say: "I got some dinosaur cookies if you want?"

Again that smile: wide, unrestrained and blinding, even in the dark. "Awesome," John says and ducks in for another kiss on your shoulder.

Crumbs get everywhere as the two of you devour the whole damn box. You get to suck chocolate from his fingers. After sharing a bottle of water, both of you are ready for sleep again. John settles against your side, head on your chest and an arm over your belly.

It feels right.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Both of you sleep a lot later than the previous morning.

The sun has set the whole tent ablaze, making you growl in protest when you finally manage to peel your lids apart. It's also unbearably warm. John is a lump against your side, face wedged into the space between your ribs and the flimsy inflatable mattress. The sleeping bag is around your ankles and when you squint down you see John's hand in a relaxed sprawl over your belly. Despite being as tan as he is, it still makes for a striking enough contrast against your natural skin color. 

John.

Oh, god. It's morning.

Fuck.

You clench your jaw and slip a hand into his hair, petting mindlessly. John makes an odd noise, a crossbreed between 'bluh' and 'hmm'. Burrows deeper.

To your left, Gamzee sits up. His hair is even wilder than usual and most of his makeup is gone, revealing the three ragged scars diagonally across his face. After a moment of scratching his armpit he looks at you, smiles lazily, but tinted with this sort of tender sadness and you know that he's aware of the feral trepidation nesting in your gut, waiting to claw its way up to your heart.

"Mornin' my brothers," he says, wriggling the rest of the way out of his sleeping bag so he can crawl towards the flap on hands and knees.

John raises his head in time so you can both stare in befuddled consternation at the briefs Gamzee is wearing. A lurid purple with 'Wednesday' across his rear in Comic Sans. It's Sunday. You're not even sure those are his and you should know, you're the only one in the goddamn apartment who remembers to do the laundry.  

Gamzee thoughtfully zips up the mosquito partition again, granting you some privacy, before his long hairy legs wander out of view.

"Is… is he going to walk around like that?" John asks, perplexed.

"Apparently," you answer. 

And then there's nothing more for the both of you to do but get ready and dressed. Neither of you talk. The silence is agonizing. John's jeans are still sodden, but he struggles into them regardless. His shirt is too, found balled into a damp wad underneath Gamzee's sleeping bag.

In daylight the shirt you gave John this night reveals itself to be one of your favorites: black with a stripe of dripping blood across the chest in red. It's old and a bit faded, but it shows John's collarbone and the huge mark you left there, teeth and all. You like the way it looks on him. And yes, fuck it, it tickles you that it sort of makes him wrapped up in something of yours, like you get to claim him, own him, mark him even more than the bruise at the base of his neck. Yours.

You touch his arm. "Keep the shirt," you mutter.

"Okay," he nods, touching the hem thoughtfully.

You swallow and nod, too.

This is it.

It's over, there's nothing more to do for him but grab his shoes and leave. You know better than to look at him right now, worried you'll either look extremely pissed off or utterly devastated.

John touches your hand, twines your fingers together and squeezes. You're beyond grateful he doesn't say thank you, or goodbye, or anything else that would cheapen what happened this night, or reveal it for what it is. You can tell he doesn't know what to do either and there's solace in that.

Instead he lifts your hand and kisses the back of it.

In a lot of ways it's worse than anything he possibly could've done and when he opens the zipper and slips out you have to do your goddamn very best to convince yourself your eyes are burning due to a lack of sleep.

That and the harsh sun is making your eyes sweat.

*

It's odd how the rest of the gang is fairly subdued.

You imagined a slew of lurid commentary and tasteless innuendos. Sure, there's a some of that, especially about the state of your neck. Apparently John did quite the number on you. Aradia's pocket mirror reveals your skin covered in hickeys and bite marks.

"Fuck, KK, you're a wreck," Sollux tells you, poking a sharp finger at a deep bruise at the base of your throat.

"Hands off, you shambling affront to nature," you snap, grabbing the offending digit.

But you don't twist it and he doesn't utterly tear into you. Instead he just sits by your side and prods you occasionally when the lapse of silence draws out too long. Everybody is reclining on the grass together to enjoy a late breakfast/early lunch together. Both Gamzee and John are gone.

Vriska won't stop staring at you.

Dave is very quiet.

There's no mental fortitude left in you to deal with them right now. You munch on dry cereal, wishing the whole damn event was over already so you can go home and withdraw into your room to watch a truly outrageous amount of romcoms whilst gorging on Ben & Jerry's. Possibly sleep forever, too.

Eventually John does return, accompanied by Gamzee nonetheless. They're talking. God, you can't _deal_ with this. Although it is hilarious to see how John valiantly tries and fails to ignore Gamzee's briefs.

And.

Oh, damn him, bless him, what the ever loving fuck is wrong with this shithead. Seriously. John has brought you coffee.

Yes, he's red in the face when he gives it to you, but give it to you he does. Even manages to get summon some of the douchbaggy mischievousness again to say: "You got something on your neck."

You have no fucking clue what to say, so you just give him the middle finger while you toss back your coffee. John grins and plonks himself down at what he seems to judge a neutral distance: not too far as to seem avoiding, not too close to be weird. For some reason he seems to think this perfect by putting Dave between the both of you.

Gamzee has pie. It's in this tinfoil pan, still steaming as though freshly out of the oven.

"Where did you even fucking get that?" you demand. Gamzee opens his mouth and you hold up your hand. "No, don't tell me. I don't want to know." If he offered sexual debauchery to a little old lady to receive access to her kitchen and oven you really don't want to know.

"Ah, best friend," Gamzee chuckles, sitting down next to you in his hideous briefs. "You need to get your munch on a slice of this motherfuckin' miracle, alright?"

"It's space cake, isn't it?" you say, frowning.

"Nope, just gooey blueberry goodness, my motherfuckin' brother." He pokes a finger right into the center and scoops up some on his index finger. Presents it to you.

You sigh. "It better be regular pie, you assclown," you grumble, but open your mouth. 

Gamzee allows you to drag the pastry off his finger with your lips and you let it sit on your tongue, so you can spit it out the moment it tastes odd. It doesn't. Just slightly warm, blueberry goodness with a buttery crust surrounding it. Exactly like the ones he bakes at home. You can tell Gamzee's baking apart by a single taste.

As you sit pondering the mystery as to how he managed to produce a goddamn pie out of thin air, Gamzee is feeding Sollux a morsel too, except that he scoops it off Gamzee's fingers first. At home he'll sometimes allow Gamzee to feed it to him, depending on how mellow he is.

With all the personality disorders stripped away you figure you barely manage to add up whatever is left to present a wholesome front. But it works, your raging being able to goad both of them to take their medication, Gamzee able to offer comfort when you need to be settled and Sollux possessing the rapier intelligence to keep you prickled. You yell, Sollux snarks and Gamzee bakes pies. Most of the time it feels like you take care of these two idiots, cleaning and running after them to nag about doctor's appointments, but when you think about it, both of them take care of you, too.

Without them you might've self-destructed by now, imploding into a steaming shitpile of your own aimless ire. But here you are. And you badly want to be home with them right now. Instead you add a glob of blueberry pie to your cereal to create this weird mess that crunches when you bite into it. It's pretty good.

Gamzee shares his pie with everybody, because he's a hippie like that. Weirdly enough, John declines.

"It's not Betty Crocker, silly," Jade says.

"Dad bakes pies and cookies every single day," John complains. "I've had enough for the rest of my fucking _life_."

Shit. He still lives at home with his _parents_. You're a terrible person. He's five years younger than you and he's beautiful when he moans your name for more.

NO.

Stop.

Bad thoughts.

Nice weather we're having today. Wow. 

Jane is commending Gamzee on his pie and before you know it they're heavily engaged in a debate about Betty Crocker versus organic ingredients. Ten minutes later they are exchanging chumhandles and promises to add each other on Facebook. 

You don't say anything until the group decides to up and leave for the first concert of the day.

John doesn't either.

*

"Are you angry?" 

Dave thumbs up his shades and looks at you. The vivid blaze of his scarlet irises is oddly enticing. Lately he's grown more comfortable showing his eyes and you think he's doing it now simply because otherwise his deadpan 'seriously bro?' expression would get lost behind tinted lenses. Making sure you got maximum exposure he keeps it up until you can tell the harsh daylight is starting to bother him, at which point he lowers them again.

"It's just that you've been awfully fucking quiet is all," you mutter and wrap your arms around your legs, drawing them towards your chest so you can prop your chin on them.

Both of you are sitting in the shade near a stage called The Box, where most of the upcoming and promising new talent performs. It's just the two of you side by side in the trampled grass and you'd be glad for some time with just your bro if it wasn't so _fucking awkward_. 

When returned that kiss you never deliberated how weird it might make things with Dave. Until, well. Now.

Dave hums, leaning back on his hands and staring up at the stage. You're watching from the corner of your eye and he's white, so white: white hair and white skin and a white hooded shirt with cat ears. The only color is the splash of freckles across the bridge of his nose, the dark aviator shades and the sliver of red eyes you can see. Next to him you're like a dirty stain: a collection of tans and browns and blacks.

"Look. It's just kinda weird is all. You're my bro, he's my bro. It's this really fucked up Strider sandwich where I'm caught in the middle. Like I'm the goddamn cream in a frickin' Oreo cookie and I wasn't even _there_ , man. Shit, I don't know. Just don't expect me to intervene or anything, cause I'm not touching this situation with a ten foot pole."

You frown at him. "Who said I'm expecting you to?"

"Please," Dave scoffs. "Pull your thumb out of your ass and smell the goddamn roses. Seriously. I know John and I know you and if ya'll expect me to believe you can be all cool and casual about this you'd better think again. Hell. Until yesterday I was sure John was straight. Straighter than the motherfucking rod up your cousin Kankri's ass. Next thing I know you two are banging."

Opening your mouth to protest you… shut it again. What can you even say? It's none of Dave's business just how much actual banging was involved. Yet his point remains: it was sex. You slowly exhale and wait for him to go on, drawing the tip of your tongue along the scabbed seam in your bottom lip. It tastes strange, coppery and sharp.

"You're a pro at overcomplicating things and John's a goddamn idiot all the damn time. I'm worried of being caught in the crossfire and not knowing what to fuck to say without looking like I'm picking sides. Plus you're both big boys, right? You wanted to spank the money, that's fine, I'll just be over here catching some ill beats."

This is giving you a migraine. "Dave, there's not going to _be_ a crossfire. It was just… just this. You know." You rub at your temples. "One time thing, I guess."

Dave snorts. You glare at him, not in the mood for a gratuitous helping of his smug ass derision.

"Karkat, c'mon. You're the biggest romantic sap ever. Remember that time we were marathoning Disney movies and you cried at Pocahontas?"

"Shut up, their love was destined and yet they nobly went separate ways because they wanted best for their people. It was really fucking tragic, you callous assmuncher."

"Yeah, there ya go," Dave says. "And then John always seems to think that every times he kisses someone he's gotta tattoo their name on his bicep before skipping off into the sunset to get married."

That gets your attention of course. Dave's mouth curls, but he doesn't continue. Instead he bobs his head approvingly to the thumping bass of the band onstage. "What's that supposed to mean?" you demand after he cheerfully lets you stew in it for five minutes.

"It means John's an optimist and while he might sort of land ass backwards into a relationship he always desperately wants it to be one."

"One what?" you echo, confused.

"A relationship," Dave repeats, exasperated. "He might not have figured it out yet, cause he's a dumbass, but if he hasn't bounced back trying to get your attention before tonight I'll eat my shades."

An intense, raw emotion locks up your throat. You have to stare avidly at the tips of your sneakers to keep your face straight.

"I love John," Dave says quietly. "I always have."

You look at him. His shades are pointed up at the stage, eyes hidden. You swallow with difficulty. It seems like you got the boy this time, despite all odds. 

Shit.

The only thing you can think of doing is bumping shoulders with him.

 

Dave bumps back.

*

"Hi Dave! Hi Karkat!"

"GAH!" you choke on your cup of water and snort half of it up your nose.

Dave helpfully pats your back as you splutter for air.

John is looking at you with some concern. "You okay?" he asks.

"Just brilliant," you cough, drool and water dribbling down your chin.

"… Uh. If you say so. Everybody is looking for you guys!" John says, rocking back on his heels and grinning.

"Define everybody," Dave says.

"Uh," John scratches at the back of his head. Shrugs. Scratches the tip of his nose with the other hand and then sort of flails both arms in what you suppose is meant to be an all-encompassing gesture. "Me and… Yeah, you know. Jade and stuff."

"Jade and stuff," Dave repeats, smirking.

"Yeah."

Dave stands up, brushes grass from the seat of his pants. "Sure thing, bro," he answers.

"You coming, Karkat?" John asks, when you remain seated. "Heh. Beep beep meow."

You blink.

"Karkat. Car cat," John smiles. "Beep beep, meow. Or vroom meow. Eheheh."

It's all you can do but to stare up at him in speechless disbelief.

Over John's shoulder you can see Dave mouth 'told ya bro'. 

*

You do, eventually, rejoin the others.

While Jade is obviously happy to see Dave, she does not appear to have been looking for him particularly. You're at a complete loss as to how to make sense of this. John acts as he did yesterday, babbling your ear off and occasionally making you cringe with how much of a dork he is. Only he doesn't touch you anymore. At all. In return you can't help but admiring him in your old t-shirt. John never took it off, though he changed into dry jeans. It's rumpled because he slept in it and the neckline gapes indecently because it's so old. His collarbone is gorgeous and you love how it frames your bite mark and fuck it, fuck everything, he's not yours.

And Dave is telling you that he could be? Or maybe that's what you're hearing simply because that is what you want but. But, fuck. Now what?

Nothing is what.

You live in Houston. John lives in Seattle. You're twenty-four and doing manual labor because you dropped out of university. He's nineteen and a Biology major. You're painfully attracted to him but you don't _know_ him. You've not even figured out if you really _like_ him, as fucked up as that is. You're so different, utterly different, John with his cheerful smiles and you with your bottomless fury.

It would never work.

And.

He deserves better.

"Holy fuck, KK, knock it off, it's embarrassing to watch," Sollux whispers under his breath. "Just go shove your tongue down his throat and stop pining, fuck."

"Nobody asked you, you lisping ignominy," you snarl. "Besides I _can't_ , okay?"

"Why not? You're both gagging for it, everybody can see it."

"Wow. Shut up."

"You're a coward, KK," Sollux goes on, snide. "A pussy."

"A pu _thh_ y," you mimic, curling your lip. "You suck at insults. Either you're calling me a cat or a vagina, both of which are awesome as hell."

Sollux rolls his eyes at you. Or at least you think he probably does. Why are your best friends all douchebags who wear hideous glasses? 

"Look, shut the fuck up and listen."

"Make up your mind, Navi, should I look, shut up or listen?"

You smirk as Sollux can't help but grimace at the reference, but refrain from needling any further.

"Stop making everything into this five act drama production," he tells you. "It's not. You can mope around like a kicked puppy for the rest of the fucking festival and not get laid _or_ you can grow a pair and, wow, guess what: get laid. Let's face it, you're already fucked in the emotional department and will feel like shit after. At least you'll get a piece of ass this way."

Put like that it sounds both crude yet simple. Sollux can harp all he wants, it _is_ more complicated than that. But he's also sort of right in the most twisted, fucked up sort of way. Worst of all is that you know Sollux is capable of juggling multiple lovers without apparently any consequences, just like Gamzee never seems to get any shit for lacking any sort of comprehension of what a committed relationship entails.

Then there's you.

This is going to blow up in your face, you just know it. Blow up hard enough your eyeballs will fly out of the back of your skull and decapitate an innocent kitten. 

Before leaving you to your umpteenth brooding session of the day, Sollux adds: "Just don't wait around for that dumbass to make the first move, cause your cock will have shriveled and fallen off before he figures it out."

On that charming note Sollux leaves you to your thoughts.

*

You wait for that dumbass.

 _What_?

What the fuck else are you supposed to do? Woo his ass? You wouldn't even be able to seduce a blind, fifty-year old virgin who overdosed on sexual stimulants.

Plus you don't want to be anymore of a creep than you're already being. Though you've probably already unlocked an achievement for that one. Not to mention that it was John who kissed _you_. You have no misconceptions about the fortune that he did, because if it had been up to you it'd have remained a fickle figment of your imagination.

So even though Sollux is giving you this look that clearly conveys he thinks Magikarp are more assertive than you are, you let him. Instead you let yourself drift along towards the Main Stage with the rest of the group for the next two hours, which blur together in a haze of crying guitars, wild drums and a slip of a girl roaring out her soul in ecstasy. 

Aradia takes your hand and swings it to the beat of the music which is honestly the culmination of your dancing gimmick for the whole damn festival. After they clear the stage you go with her to line up for a watermelon. Like the pizza they're hideously overpriced, but so _worth_ it. Sunlight glares down. You've been both parched and grossly perspiring for the better part of the afternoon. The fruit is delicious, moist enough that you have to wipe at your chin every other bite. 

Gamzee would love this, so you save your second slice for him. Where _is_ Gamzee anyway? Okay, sure, you are fully aware that Gamzee is an adult and is theoretically able to fend for himself. Then again there are days he doesn't remember how to tie his goddamn shoelaces or forgets to put on pants. And days where he… well. Which is _exactly_ why you can't help but always feel slightly anxious when you lose track of him for long spells.

Plus you highly doubt he's even remotely had so much as a passing thought to drink or eat anything besides that fucking pie today.

"Has anyone seen Gamzee?" you ask, shielding your eyes from the sun as you scope around for a familiar hulking figure.

Nobody reacts but for John: "He's at the kiddie circus," he says around a mouthful of watermelon. Fruit goes flying everywhere. Dirk ducks a chunk almost absentmindedly.

"… the what?" you repeat blandly.

Wiping his arm across his mouth, he points across the grounds. "They're beyond the laundromat truck."

"… there's a laundromat truck?" you deadpan. "Why is there even a laundromat truck?"

Shrug. 

You pinch the bridge of your nose. 

"C'mon, I'll show you," John offers, already standing up.

Both Dave and Sollux are giving you a Look, actually going as far as to slowly lift their horrible eyewear up in an eerie show of synchrony. 

You toss a withering glare at them over your shoulder as you trudge after John. While you cross the stretch of sun-dried grass, dodging other people or jumping over those passed out on the ground, John talks at you. You like that he does, leaving no chilly silence for you to agonize over. Controversially you are relieved he does _not_ flirt, conscious that you'd likely clamp shut and get inappropriately defensive. A dark, small corner of your heart is disappointed that he _doesn't_ , not that you'd ever admit it. With conflicting emotions like these it's not hard to guess why you're never happy, fuck.

Although he does not pretend like your night together didn't happen, either.

"Did I hurt you?" John suddenly asks, voice low and hurried, as though the question has been poised on the tip of his tongue the whole damn day and suddenly leaps free.

Startled by the abrupt turn, you shake your head at him. "Huh?"

"Your neck."

"Oh," your cheeks are steadily flushing, you can feel it. "Er, I kind of like some pain with my pleasure. It's okay, really."

"Alright," he just says, nodding.

As though he summoned a visceral memory by referring to it, you remember his mouth and teeth on you, the heat of his lips, the scent of his skin and his hair slipping between your fingers. The weight of him against you, the blue of his eyes unguarded through sooty lashes. His shallow, breathy gasps. Your name on his exhales.

Great.

You're half-mast and upside down in your jeans.

Just what you needed.

*

"Hey, best friend." 

"Oh my god, Gamzee," you groan, covering your face with your hands in abject despair. 

They're going to arrest him for being a pervert, you just know it. They're going to arrest him and you'll have to bail him out and then three of you will have to move to China and live off bamboo whilst wallowing in puddle of your own excreted shame juices.

What twenty-four year old wastes his time at a music festival making goddamn _balloon animals_ with badly smudged clown face paint and a magnificently doped expression on his face? Not to mention he's shirtless and his whole back and arms are inked full with highly disturbing dark carnival scenes.  

"Hey dude," is all John manages by way of greeting before being instantly swamped by five or so kids who beg him for coin tricks. They seem to know him. At least he keeps his shirt on.

They take one look at you and steer clear in a five foot radius. 

After a closer inspection the three of you are presently at what seems to be a weird crossbreed between a playground and a petting zoo. Likely this is the place where desperate parents dump their offspring in order to have some peace for a meagre amount of time. It also reveals several little ankle gnawers scampering around with various animal-shaped balloons drifting in their reckless wake. Someone's been busy.

"How long have you been at this shit?" you ask, slapping the balloons out of his hands to shove the watermelon at him.

Gamzee all but buries his face in it. "Uhm," he grunts, chewing blissfully.

Why do you even ask? He's barely got a concept of time as it is on account of giving zero fucks. If Gamzee and Dave didn't utterly loathe each other you'd have considered hooking the two of them up simply to exploit that convenient solution (Dave always knows what time it is. Always. Correctly to the minute. You don't think he even owns a watch).

"Never mind," you sigh and push a bottle of water at him, too. "Drink all of it. None of your abyssal Faygo rubbish."

After he's reduced the watermelon to only the peel and downed half the bottle under your glowering supervision, Gamzee makes a crab for you out of red balloons. Presents it as though it's the winning ticket to the lottery.

"Gee, thanks," you mutter, accepting it with quite some reluctance. "Just what I needed to look even more like a social reject."

"No problem best friend," Gamzee says, amiably ruffling your hair.

John comes skipping up to you, smiling at the crab. "Cool! Hey, you think you can make a spider?"

"Sure thing."

You make sure to roll your eyes as John _oohs_ appreciatively while Gamzee inflates some blue balloons and deftly begins twisting them together. Where did he even learn that? You've known this dipshit for particularly your whole damn life and half the crap he does you've no damn clue why or what or even _how_. Chances are he doesn't even know himself and it just baffles you.

"Thanks man," John is saying, admiring the huge spider Gamzee hands over. There's two goggly eyes stuck to the front. "I'm gonna go. You coming?"

You suppose you are, trailing after him while Gamzee waves at your back. As soon as you can you pawn the crab balloon off to some hideous, screaming tyke.

"Aw," John clucks when he sees. "It was pretty sweet, though."

"You look like enough of an idiot for the both of us," you tell him moodily. 

"Heheh," John twirls the spider around. "So… you like crabs?" he asks, doing yet another merry leap the the next conversational topic freight train hurtling through the maze that is John Egbert's head.

You squint at him from through your messy bangs. John taps his own earlobes with both index fingers. The spider bobs cheerfully up-and-down as he does.

Oh, your plugs. They're wooden with a red crab inlay. "My sign is Cancer," you allow. "And what's not to like about those crabby little fuckers?"

"Crabby," John echoes. "Like you."

"Oh, shut up, Egderp."

He winks, playfully, and you inexplicably find yourself blushing like a teenager. This is awful. Awful enough you're almost relieved to see Vriska (but not really. Seriously, it's the Spiderbitch, you're rather bathe in a tub full of fire ants) and have John's small knowing smile redirected.

"Vriska!" John bellows, making you cringe as he nearly pops your eardrum.

She's surrounded by a group of markedly attractive people, mostly male. All of them turn to glare at John in practiced unison. The latter seems blissfully unaware of the tension and lopes up to her. Vriska blinks at John, her long hair sliding over the curve of her breast like a blue electric current.

"I got you something," he gives her the balloon.

What you expected, you're not sure. But not to see something like genuine affection cross her features as she takes it from him. It softens her mouth and warms her glacial blue eyes with something tender. It wigs you the fuck out because for a second you feel like you might understand what John sees in her. It makes her look human. You don't like being overwhelmed by the evidence of Vriska Serket's redeeming qualities. It leaves very little recourse to cheerfully continue resenting her guts. You give it your best effort. Find that it is not hard at all.

"That's seriously pathetic," one of the guys says, glancing at John with a look usually reserved for something stuck to the bottom of your shoe. Probably mistaking him for another admirer.

"Who asked you for your laaaaaaaame opinion?" Vriska asks, baring her teeth at the hapless idiot. He recoils. Her canines are ridiculously sharp and catch the sunlight not unlike a slavering, rabid arachnid. "Thanks John, you're a winner," she says and kisses him lightly on the mouth, probably simply to mess with her entourage's heads.

Right. Sure. You don't realize you're balling your hands into fists until your knuckles audibly crack in protest. Vriska blows you a kiss as John returns to your side, trying to get lipstick off his face. You both glare at each other over his utterly oblivious shoulder.

"You better be nice to him, Vantas," she yells after your retreating backs.

"I'll show you nice," you snarl under your breath. Evil woman.

"I hate lipstick," John whines. His whole chin and right cheek are smeared blue, as well as his whole lower arm. "It's sticky. Help?"

Again, a choice. John's face a little above yours, blue in the sky beyond him, blue in his eyes, blue all over his face. You try to catch the latter on the heel of your hand, marveling at the perfect reversal of your roles. John's watching you. You don't miss the way his breath catches when you graze his lips.

Everything slows down. Both sharpens and hazes. The sun suddenly seems to make everything gleam, overexposed and glaring. People talking, shouting, singing. Music at the fringes of your awareness. Your chest feels odd, like your heart is cast from lead, a heavy, full presence in your chest. The tips of your fingers are sublimely sensitive and you imagine you can feel the minute eddies in the wind tickling them.

He doesn't lean down, just meets your eyes. This much you can do, you can meet him halfway. 

You choose.

Raise yourself slightly on the tips of your toes to kiss him, chaste but lingering. He tastes of watermelon and Vriska's lipstick. John makes a small noise, almost submissive, and you become aware of the possessive fistful of his hair in your hand, the bones standing out under your skin in outrage.

Oops. Yeah, okay. Time to back off. 

"Sorry," you mutter, apologetically petting the abused hank of hair down again.

Before you can back off completely John swoops down to murmur against the curve of your ear, lips warm and grinning: "I like a little pain with my pleasure."

… aaand we're back at half-mast and upside down in your jeans. Fan-fucking-tastic.

John has the audacity to snicker, so you smack his arm. This time he allows you to pull away completely. You shift your weight and somehow manage to scrape together enough nerve to pointedly announce: "I'm going to take a shower."

John blinks. Two pinks spots appear on his cheeks.

Hah, one point for you. You look up at him through your lashes and ask: "Want to... come?"

John opens his mouth, coughs convulsively and goes even redder. "Yeah, sure. Great."

That was probably the lamest goddamn pickup line in the whole fucking universe and it _worked_.

 

You're a fucking genius.

*

What you expected from your shower experience with John is hard to say, but it certainly did not involve you cursing furiously when you get soap in your eyes and John being a heartless asshole and laughing at you. Alright, sure, he laughs at you, but does it while dabbing at your eyes with a corner of a dry towel.

"You should get tear free shampoo," he says, smiling as you blearily blink up at him.

In all honesty, it's a strange experience for you. The shower cabins are hardly a conducive environment to get in the mood. There's chattering and laughing outside, other showers running all around, not to mention that you two are hardly the first to use this shower today.

It's kind of gross, actually.

On the other hand John is naked, wet skin gleaming and brushing against yours because the cabin is so terribly small it's impossible not to. His face is bare, leaving his eyes huge and vulnerable, especially with his hair flattened against his scalp. You can't help but look at him, the whole of him, so close you can feel your breath bounce back if you exhale.

Okay, you admit it, you're sort of vaguely turned on. He's there, he's naked, he's attractive, he wants you.

It's clear that neither of you are very sure what to do now that it's pretty much obvious nothing too overt is going to happen in the shower. At first you just sort of awkwardly maneuver around, tucking your elbows in and trying not to trod on any toes. But as soon as your mishap with the soap is taken care of, his hands go to your hair. Washes it for you.

Before you know it your forehead thunks down against his collarbone as you become putty under his ministrations. John massages his fingertips into your scalp rather artlessly, clearly having no damn clue what he's doing, but it feels _good_. He laughs quietly and you allow your hands to come up and settle on his hips at either side. Smoothing your thumbs over the prominent arches of his hipbones, you crack your eyes open and look down to get a visual of that. Yeah, they look nice framed between your palms. And, hey, hello there. John's about half-hard right now and yes, damn, that's a really nice cock he has.

"You gonna move anytime soon?" John's voice comes from somewhere above you. 

"No," you respond, tipping your face to smush it into his chest.

Hands drop to your shoulders and squeeze a little. When he chuckles you can feel it resonate. It's nice.

After slapping some conditioner on your mop (seriously, you _have_ to, you're known to break combs in your hair when you don't) you return the favor. It's actually harder as you have to lift your arms at a really awkward angle to be able to get at him. John's hair is as thick as yours, but somehow smoother. It's wild and unruly, but not a nightmare of tangles and knots like yours is.

You wash each other, working soap into one another's skin so everything becomes slippery slick and by the time you're done the two of you are kissing, open-mouthed and sloppy under the spray.

Fucking finally.

Fucking him last night didn't get it _out_ of your system. Far from. You're lightheaded with need, almost climbing your way up his body to get closer, he's naked and wet and his tongue is in your mouth and it's _not enough_.

"We should…" John manages between bouts of furious kissing.

" _Yes_ ," you snarl at him, wrenching the shower off with sudden violence.

Clothes, fuck. Where are your pants? Fuck boxer shorts, you'll be taking everything off again right away, you jam them into a pocket. Getting your t-shirt on is pure hell, your wet skin fights it all the way and your drenched hair soaks the back instantly. Fuck socks, too, those go in the other pocket, damn your shoes and how the hell do laces work again?

John's bundled the soap bottles into the barely used towel, hair streaming water down the line of his neck, glasses fogged.

Both of you all but fall out of the cabin and a distant corner of your mind notes with relief nobody was lined up for your shower to see your graceless abscond. It's your tent the both of you tumble into yet again. Flinging your shirts away your mouth is on his throat before you remember that hey, everybody can fucking see you, best that you close the flap, no?

You do.

John kisses the back of your neck all the while, his hands unbuttoning your pants. In retaliation you push him back, straddle him and pin him down so he's got nowhere to go and you have full access to his mouth. His lips part under yours as your hands slide up from his wrists so you can lace your fingers with his. 

John makes a noise and it's not a good one. You pull back, stomach flooding with cold dread. Are you coming on too strong? You're coming on too strong. Fuck. Idiot. You're such an idiot.

"… what?" you pant, voice small.

"Your lip," John says, looking worried.

It's bleeding again. Not as much and badly as yesterday, but a thick, sluggish drop leaks down your chin. 

John pushes up and you go wide-eyed when you realize he has no trouble lifting you along, even trapping him down as you were. "Tissue?" he asks, looking around.

You watch his expressions when he cleans your chin with light touches, soaking the blood up carefully. His brows are furrowed, intent, the bright blue of his eyes fringed by thick, short lashes. God, you're in so much trouble. You kiss him as soon as he removes the tissue, rendering his careful attentions for nought as you jolt the wound. You don't care. Let it bleed. 

John tries to be careful until you growl at him ' _don't you fucking dare_ ' after which he seems to take you at your word, sucking your lower lip into his mouth. His tongue drags along it, gentles over the wound.

It's different this time.

It's broad daylight. Nothing is comfortably veiled with shadows, easy and soft. You get blaring technicolor this time, no hiding in any way whatsoever. And… here you both are. For the second time.

He tastes good, he feels good, he looks good and smells good, himself, yes, but also your soap and shampoo and arousal stamped all over him. The scent goes straight to your groin. For the longest time you just kiss, John underneath you, legs parted to accommodate you. You have your hands on his face, needing to swipe your thumb along his bottom lip even as he parts them for your own. You lick between them, slide a little deeper to touch his tongue, draw back entirely to kiss the corner of his eye. John whines pleadingly. You can feel his heart thundering against your chest.

It's unpracticed wanting between the two of you. Both your exhales indecently loud, desperate and permeated with shaking, faint moans. 

One moment John will be having your mouth like he's conquering a goddamn universe, the next it's just your lips clinging, touching and parting and meeting again and fuck, damn it, you're in so much trouble.

It's warm, you're sweating and after that shower you're so sensitive, every shift of John's fingers magnified even if they only cup the nape of your neck. Your awareness shrinks down to only him, John's mouth swollen and wet from yours, his lidded eyes, the taste of him and the gasps stuttering from his throat. Everything is charged by pure adrenaline, your libido unrestrained and it's so _good_. You've never felt like this with anyone else. All tidal and honeyed sensation.

As much as you like the kissing, you're relieved when your pants come off completely. John forgets to take off his shoes when he kicks his own away, winds up in a tangled yelping mess.

You roll your eyes to hide your amusement as you untie his laces to help him out while he's a squirming, laughing heap on his side. Dork. You kiss his ankle after you pull his jeans off, causing John to fumble the condom he tracked down and drop it on his belly. You need to help him out with that, too, because he's unable to figure out the correct side. A strangled noise as you push it down his length, his eyes fluttering shut. Fuck, you want him. You want… _more_. But. Dammit. Wait. Maybe if…

Sliding your hand over him a few times you place a warm kiss on his stomach and murmur into his skin: "Would you… mind trying something?"

You need to take your hand off John's dick before he's coherent enough to respond. You repeat yourself and watch him closely as he rolls the implications over in his mind. "I… I suppose so," he manages, voice thick.

He doesn't even ask what.

 _You idiot_ , you think as you look around for some lotion in your bag, _you can't just trust people like this. You barely know me, why isn't there someone making sure you're not doing anything stupid like running off with a guy who could easily take advantage of you._

Are you?

It gives you a pause.

 _Are_ you taking advantage of him?

"Karkat?" John's sitting up, hands skimming down your arms. His eyes are brilliant and earnest. You look down at the small bottle between your fingers, swallow hard.

"You don't have to," you tell him.

"… I know?" John goes, clearly having no clue what's bugging you. "Hey. C'mere." Kisses you slow and languid, like he could do it all damn day and still want more. "You" -kiss- "need" -kiss- "to" -kiss- "relax".

"I am fucking relaxed!" you growl against his lips.

"Hmmm _hmm,_ " John hums, deviating from your mouth towards your cheek, your jaw, up to your ear to catch it between his teeth, huff hot exhales against it.

It makes you shiver, leaning into him as his hands knead your back soothingly. How does he even do this to you? Take you apart, lay you bare and you're just _letting_ him. But… when you dip your head to run your slightly parted lips over his nipples (he's sensitive, you like it a lot) before gently pushing him back down, he lets you, too.

You sit between his spread legs for a moment and make the mistake of _looking_ at him. John's spread out, hands in relaxed curls next to his head, damp hair a tangled halo, your love bite featuring like a centerpiece at the base of his throat, _ngh_ , you pant open-mouthed, squeezing his thighs hard enough to make him grunt as you fight down an acute wave of arousal.

John's watching curiously when you arrange his legs together at one side of you, scoot close enough your knees touch his buttocks. Urge him to plant his feet, so you can slide your hand between the back of his thighs after dripping a generous dollop of lotion in your palm. His chest hitches when you spread it between his inner thighs, his dick, his balls, his taint, making sure everything's sleek. Coat your own cock with it, slow and thorough.

It takes some maneuvering to lift him, wadding the sleeping bag under his hips to keep them elevated, draping his long legs over your right shoulder and hugging them to your chest. Guide yourself to push between his legs, right between the very crest of his thighs. _Thrust_.

John scrabbles to get a hold of something, eyes widening, gets fistfuls of what's left of the sleeping bag trapped under his back. His mouth shudders open.

Carefully you exhale. Breathe for a moment, running your palm mindlessly along John's legs. Groan against his knees hooked next to your head as he experimentally squeezes his thighs. Try again, slowly, rocking into the slick heat and fuck… _it's beautiful_. It's not an easy position, especially to keep up for a extended amount of time, but you're not going to last very long at all. Not with John slowly letting his head tip back, eyes fever bright, slowly flushing, definitely flushing, this gradual hue that screams arousal and sex and needing all over his body, on fire.

After settling on something of a rhythm -not too fast, don't want to hurt him- you try to angle, slide up just right against him as you plunge in, dragging along the base of John's cock when you emerge at the other side, and back.

John's actually noisy this time, while you're silent, wound tight with concentration and desperately trying to keep from coming right away. _Not yet, not yet, you want to stay here just a little longer, make John moan just a little louder,_ you drop kisses on his bony knee. You hitch him higher, push down steeper, can feel the flare of your dick grind against his taint, his balls, further and John makes an unknowable noise from deep in his chest.

You falter, hips slowing. 

John actually sobs.

"You okay?" you grit out, pressing your cheek into his leg. _Not yet not yet not yet not yet… shitshitshit._

"… didn't… didn't know my thighs could be so sensitive," he chuckles, but sounds rather as though his sanity is unravelling at the seams.

Your laugh dissolves into a groan as you start moving again, leaning into him some more, John's abs clenching in his stomach to catch the weight. The angle must get him just right because the only coherency he's got left is a litany of _please_ and _Karkat_ over and over, voice cracking, until even that dissolves into sheer noise. His hand is moving furiously over his own erection and sometimes the head of your dick bumps into his knuckles as you surface, making you both hiss.

You wish you could say you are a perfect Casanova and last long enough to get him off first, but you don't.

For a moment you lose yourself and buck into him, hard, finishing across John's stomach. You can't breathe, can't see, can only shiver and hold on, your forehead dropping onto John's knee. Your chest is an aching burn with how hard your heart is pumping, your surroundings a swirl of color, blue mostly, the sun glowing up the interior of your tent and it's like drowning in John's eyes.

You feel like you just fought a battle to the death and barely survived.

Exhausted, shaky and _so fucking alive, so real, so good_.

John kicks his heel into your back and you jolt back into semi-awareness. His eyebrows are clenched with need and he's trying to curse at you, so close and really really _really_ pissed off. It's rather adorable.

You gently lower him, lift his legs from your shoulder and he's instantly surging up towards you, wanting to press close. When you shove him back down he snarls, wordlessly, but it falls into a startled ' _haaAAA-_ ' when you wrap your lips around him. His skull makes a painful noise as it thunks back down.

It's absolute murder on your lip, you can see a faint trail blood streaking the latex when you slide up, but it doesn't matter because John's already fisting both hands into your hair and coming.

Reality returns with noise, harsh exhales, the murmur of other people nearby, birds chirping and unaccountable clattering and thumps _everywhere_. You're relatively sure some passerby must've made a remark at the noise you were both making, but you can't recall anything but John. You try to calm your breathing, head resting on his hip. John's flat on his back and very, very still. After a moment you crawl up his body, get him under you and search for his mouth.

John's answer is utterly disoriented, kissing hazily. You realize he's shivering. Outright, full body shivering. Pulling back you blink at him. His eyes are wide, somewhat confused and would've been feral if the look in them hadn't been so raw.

"Hey… hey," you whisper, swirling fingertips into his hair at either side, "everything alright?" 

Small kiss on his trembling lips.

Jerk of the chin. "Yeah… I. Just." He swallows thickly.

That's when you realize you're absolutely the biggest asshole ever. God, fuck. Past you is utter garbage. Of course. John was under you all the same, body swaying with each impact and even if you weren't inside of him he'd still feel _fucked_. He's never been with a boy, just you, and you repaid him like this. Cold panic falls into your gut like a brick. You're terrible. Shit.

Cradling his face you wait until he looks up at you. At least you've not reduced him to tears, thank fuck he's made of sterner stuff than that. "You should've told me to stop," you tell him, hating how your voice wavers.

John blinks and some of his familiar levity settles back into his eyes. "Whoa, hey. Calm down. I didn't _want_ you to stop. At all. I'm fine." Suspicious he's just trying to make you feel better, you eye him. John's mouth his starting to twitch and that's familiar, too. Shit. 

"It's just… well." Grin. "It was really fucking _intents_." 

Pointed pause.

You're mentally facepalming. 

"Get it?"

"Gee. Let me think… because we just fucked in a tent? Wow. You just won comedy gold right there Egbert."

Worst thing is, you _are_ sort of laughing, these helpless, breathless hitches because the joke's so bad it's completely hilarious. Underneath you, John's laughing, too.

He's an idiot.

He's beautiful.

You kiss him again, lips curving.

*

Both of you are utterly useless after that. It's all you can do to spur yourselves into cleaning up, before flopping down so much as dead weight. John's on his back, staring up at the roof of the tent, a hand in your hair as you lie with your head pillowed on his stomach, curled on your side and facing him. Watching his chest rise as he breathes, your own rising along.

Can't remember the last time you were so relaxed. So content, too tired to be angry or frustrated. Utterly sated.

The world still doesn't feel quite real. Music is throbbing indistinctly in the distance, the festival going on without the two of you. You're missing out on some bands you wanted to catch and you don't give a single flying fuck.

There's an alteration in John's breathing that alerts you he's about to say something.

"I've always kind of wanted to be a stand-up comedian," he murmurs.

Shifting a little to catch his eyes, you answer: "Then what are you doing in Biology?"

John combs his fingers through your tangles as he formulates a response. "I'm good at that and it's interesting. My dad thinks it's got better prospects for my future, too. Easier to get a job in and all that."

"… Your dad disapproves of non-conventional… choices?" you hazard and you're not only asking about his education.

Silence. John looks at you, blue eyes frank. "I… don't really know?" he admits. "He just wants what's best for me and. And I want him to be proud of me."

You get that. You do. There's not a day that goes by where you don't hunch a little more under the recognition that your dad would probably be disappointed if he could see you now.

"What about your mother?" you ask, softly.

"I… ah," an uncomfortable twitch. "She's dead."

Oh, fuck. You clench your eyes. Idiot. Such an idiot.

"Hey, dude, it's okay," John says, lips twitching as you crack an eye open to peer at him. "I can't remember her. I was, like, two."

"What happened?"

"She fell down a stepladder and landed badly."

Jesus. What a way to die.

You've got nothing to say to that, so you just kiss his navel.

"What about yours?" John asks after a moment.

"Dead."

"Ah."

He doesn't say 'I'm sorry'. You feel the muscles between your shoulders unclenching, didn't even know you'd tensed up. He gets it. A finger traces down your nose, taps the tip. Beep.

"… how?" 

"My mother died in a car accident," you begin, roughly. "Some asshole ran a red light and got her in the side. They said she was probably dead on impact."

You do remember her, vaguely. Even though the memory's doubtlessly amplified by your reverence for her, you remember her as being beautiful. No, not just beautiful; the most beautiful woman ever. Long, curling hair, dusky skin and big, dark eyes. Smiling. You can only remember her smiling or dead and battered in the coffin. And dancing with your dad. They did that a lot. You'd be thirsty and come down for a glass of water in the middle of the night and there they'd be, in the middle of the darkened living room, swaying in each other's arms to _Wonderful Tonight_ by Eric Clapton. It's not hard to figure out where your high standard in love roots from. It's why you're fated to constantly fuck up, your expectations so high and your inherent need to have it be perfect driving everybody away.

It's not perfect. Love. And you fucking know it. But then you'll think about your parents dancing together and think, yes, yes it fucking can be. 

"Shit," John says and it's not eloquent or even very sensitive, but it pretty much sums up the situation.

"Yeah, no fucking kidding."

Inevitably the memory of your parents locked in their embrace, oblivious to the world, makes you think of Terezi. Childhood friends, she'd been your everything: playmate, partner-in-crime, friend, confidante, girlfriend, lover, first crush, first love, first kiss, first sex; and it had been perfect. You'd asked her to prom and you'd danced with her and it had been perfect. To you. Turns out you're an inconsiderate asshole because hey, not everybody has the same standards and might desire different things from life, from love, from a steady relationship, but you'd been too hellbent on doing it _exactly_ right. No wonder she ran head along into Dave Strider's arms.

Oddly enough this doesn't depress you quite as lot as it usually does. Might have something to do with this blue-eyed nerd you're using as a pillow, though.

You clear your throat. "My dad…" _God, dad_. " … died of cancer."

"Recently?" John's voice is muted, as if by gentling his volume the query'll be easier to bear. It is, somehow.

"I was twenty-one when he was diagnosed. Happened… happened really fast after that. Gone before Christmas came around."

Like you, John hasn't got anything to say to that, just keeps threading his fingers through your hair.

"… did we just bond over our dead parents?" you wonder, lip curling.

"Pretty much dude," John snickers.

"Holy shit. Tacky much?"

"Eheheh." 

You can feel him laugh under your cheek, rumbling deep in his chest. It tickles. John yawns. Limbs heavy you shift slowly around until you're stretched out next to him, his arm under the curve of your neck. Light floods the tent, it's the middle of the day, but your eyelids feel heavy. It gets increasingly difficult to open them again after blinking.

"Wanna take a nap?" John whispers, curling towards you.

"Hmm," you go, already asleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last part up next Friday!


	3. Chapter 3

 

By the time you wake the late-summer sun is subdued. You blink until everything comes into focus, knuckle at your eyes. On your side, you find yourself with your head propped on a bicep that's not yours and someone breathing into your neck.

You're the little spoon.

Raising your head, you peer sleepily over your shoulder. Blue eyes blink at you, wide and bare.

"Awake?" John asks.

"No, dipshit, I'm sleepwalking," you grunt, dropping your head again.

"Better put on some pants first," John says. You can feel him grin against the back of your neck. "Not that I wouldn't totally enjoy the view."

It's… it's a bad idea. But. John's hand is cradling your stomach and his nose tickles against the side of your throat and… you just _want_ to. Carefully, you turn around in his embrace so you're facing each other. John doesn't pull back. It's incredibly intimate, your heart speeds up and you exhale against his collarbone shakily.

"Wow, good to know how you high you rate my virtue," you answer, settling into the curve of his arm.

"What virtue? You just jizzed all over my stomach." 

You pinch his sides and he yelps, before retaliating. He goes for your ribs and you howl with indignation.

Okay, so, maybe you're really fucking ticklish.

"FUCK YOU ASSWIPE STOP IT I SWEAR I'LL FUCKING GUT YOU WITH A BLUNT SPOON DEFACE ON YOUR VITAL ORGANS AND HAVE GAMZEE BAKE A GODDAMN PIE OUT OF THEM AND THEN I'M GOING TO EAT IT AND ENJOY EVERY SINGLE FUCKING BITE NO STOP DON'T TOUCH ME _FUUUUUUUUUUU_ -CK."

How is this twerp stronger than you? You call uncle when tears begin to stream down your cheeks and your sides hurt from helpless laughter. You heave for air like you're about to expire, scrabbling after his wrists so you can keep track of them, hold them up and away from your abused torso.

"I'm going to shit in your shoes, I fucking swear," you gasp at him, reeling.

John kisses your open mouth. "So romantic." 

"I will breed killer squirrels, unleash them on your sorry idiot ass and laugh as they tunnel through putrid flesh, your screams of tormented agony a delightful symphony to laud my abiding hatred."

"Be still, my beating heart," John flutters his lashes at you.

You glare. "Yes, death tends to do that. Which you will be. Soon."

John smirks before leaning in to kiss you. Gentle of your broken lip, all warm lingering grazes along yours, watching your furious face thaw into needy assent from under his lashes. Pulls back, pointedly raising his eyebrows when you instinctively follow him.

"Any moment now," you promise. "Violent death."

You let his wrists go so he can cup your face between his palms for more kisses. Sooner than you'd like you have to stop, pulling away. Holy fuck your lip is a bastion of outrage. The split is on the left side, raw-edged and tender, tasting of stale blood and _pain_. Fuck.

"That's going to scar," John says, scrunching his nose up as he studies it.

"Worth it."

Pause.

 _Fuuuuuck_. It fell out of your imbecile mouth before you could stop it. You meant it, you really did. You don't mind having an outward scar on your face to match the one you'll have hidden inside your chest when the festival inevitably comes to an end and… and _this_ , too.

Awkward, you look away. 

John swallows, before trying to dispel the tension. "Hey, you wanna head back? There's a band I'd like to see."

Nodding, you begin looking for your boxer shorts. "Same. And I'm _starving_."

"No kidding," John beams at you.

While you're rummaging for a shirt that's not drenched (seriously, the hell's up with that?), John leaves for his own tent to do the same. Noting that he takes your shirt along, apparently having no intention to try and return it to you, you drawn in an unsteady breath. Your stomach feels odd, like you swallowed a hive of bees and they're swarming around in utter turmoil. The fucker who came up with having _butterflies_ obviously had no fucking idea what they were talking about. It's a lot more violent than that.

"Oof," John tumbles back inside, knocking into your shoulder. "Ready?"

He's wearing an eye watering blue shirt that shows on the front: _What time is it?_ You don't need to see the back to know what it says.

"Yeah, hang on," you tell him, shrugging into your own shirt. Which is, three guesses, black. It doesn't say anything. Grabbing your wallet (still damp from its olympic puddle-diving from yesterday) you shift to crawl out.

"Karkat?" Something in John's voice makes you stop immediately. "… what are we doing?"

Deliberately you turn to him, sitting on your haunches. He's looking at his hands, tangled together on his lap. You owe him the truth.

"I don't know," you confess.

John studies your face and you watch him back helplessly, but as honestly as you can. It's a terrible answer and you know it, but something about it or your bearing seems to comfort him.

"Okay," he says and you both get up to leave.

*

As you both head back towards the festival grounds, John walks close enough your fingers brush occasionally. The sixth time it happens, you catch his index with your pinkie, curl them together.

Out of the corner of your eyes, you can see him smile.

*

"Holy fuck you two," Dirk says as you approach your friends.

"We were getting noodles," John says, displaying a take-away cup similar to your own.

"For _three_ hours?" Jane wants to know.

Both of you shrug. "It was a long line," you say to a general groan of disbelief.

It's not like you're expecting to fool anyone, but it's none of their business. Yeah, okay, it is, you suppose. They're your friends, John even has family in the group and of course everybody can tell something's changed by the way John _almost_ -not quite- leans in to you as you stand side-by-side.

And something _has_ changed.

As the day slants into early evening it becomes only more pronounced. Neither you or John talked about it, even agreed to it, even so much as hinted at it. You don't know what caused it, whether it was the raw intimacy of your sex earlier, the talking afterwards, sleeping in each other's arms or the easy shameless teasing. However, something tipped slightly into a wordless agreement of _hey, yes, please_ and when John dips his head to kiss you lightly sometime later you're not truly taken aback.

You know their eyes are on the both of you, but it's heavy with worry rather than disapproval. Part of you is worried, too. You don't actually doubt that John is sincere, but less than a day remains to the two of you. The other part is going _fuck this_ , you couldn't turn back if you wanted to, you just want to enjoy this while it lasts and not riddle it with misgivings about truths you are powerless to prevent regardless. 

Incredibly stupid and unquestionably self-destructive? Yes.

It rather seems as though when John stuck his tongue down your throat for the second time he succeeded in hitting an OFF switch for your sense of self-preservation with it. Undoubtedly Sollux did _not_ mean 'dig an even deeper emotional chasm to cast yourself into with reckless abandon' when he said 'grow a pair'. Yet here you are, shoveling away with gusto by treating John as though he's… well, your boyfriend. You're going to make a spectacular smear of gore when you hit rockbottom.

*

Inevitably someone takes it upon themselves to have a 'talk' with you. Both of you. Separately. Like kids that got caught with their hands in the goddamn cookie jar and need to get their fingers slapped. It really pisses you off.

Jade, as John's sister, corners him first. Leading him away by the arm to bow heads of identical dark hair together to converse furiously. John becomes severely agitated at one point and you fear it might come to head-on sibling confrontation right then and there. Jade would kick John's ass, too. 

It seems, weirdly enough, that they selected Roxy as the one to deal with you. She probably drew the shortest straw. There's no words for how grateful you are it's neither Sollux, Aradia, Gamzee or, heavens forbid, _Dave_. At least they seem to unanimously agree that, yeah, no, you have to deal with it yourself. You watch her approach, hackles raised and speak before she can.

"Roxy, I like you. You're smart, you're nice, you're funny, you've got great boobs. But if you fucking dare to try to lecture me I'm going to absolutely flip my shit and you'll be featuring as a bulls-eye for a glorious full frontal of steaming feces."

Roxy blinks, then quirks her lips. "Yeah, I thought not," she agrees and offers you her cup. Accepting, you gulp down a good swallow and flinch because holy shit that's strong. The two of you watch someone coaxing the most incredible riffs out of their guitar onstage in companionable silence, passing the cup back and forth. "So," she says after a while.

"So," you echo.

"How was he?"

"… what? How what who what?" you babble, but your cheeks are already heating up.

"The Egderp. Was his young, nubile-"

"HOLY SHIT ROXY IF ONE MORE WORD FALLS OUT OF YOUR MOUTH I'LL BE MORALLY OBLIGED TO JAM MY THUMBS THROUGH MY GODDAMN EYES, INTO MY BRAIN AND FINGER THE MERRY HELL OUT OF IT UNTIL IT DETONATES INTO OBLIVION."

Her mouth curls and she looks so much like her sister in that moment it freaks you out. "That good, huh?" she goes, winking.

You point a finger at her. "I swear my unholy rage will rouse every single corpse in a ten-mile wide radius and it's going to be a subliminal carousing of famished zombies feasting at long last and you'll be the fucking appetizer!"

"I think I saw a porno like that once."

"Oh my fucking god," you say.

*

Evening spills across the horizon in a glorious patchwork of twinkling stars and clouds soaked cotton candy pink with the last evidence of the setting sun. A final barrier is smashed through music-wise, the best bands preserved to deliver a memorable finale to the festival. You watch, a welcome breeze tossing your hair out of your eyes as you peer up into the glare of the stage lights haloing the performers, John Egbert by your side.

Beach balls bounce overhead and there's this charged energy as the audience _moves_ , dancing, laughing, singing along, being delivered into a blissful state of euphoria as one joined entity. It sweeps you along, a beat in the core of your body that goes beyond the music, but when John slides his arms around you from behind, that's for you alone.

Most of the time the both of you toe and ambiguous line, never quite clear what is allowed and what is not, not to mention that you've got to be _careful_. You've no intention to let yourself or John get in trouble with a bunch of bigots. Considering everything the two of you have been fortunate so far and you do not mean to push your luck.

Watching the stage over the top of your head, John stands behind you. Not flush, but close, hands touching your waist before slipping towards the front to rest on your stomach. Surrounded by friends, you feel secure enough to rest your own over his, lacing fingers. All your nerves seem to be hyperaware of every minute shift and movement John makes, the feedback traveling straight into your chest besides. Warmth floods you as he trails gentle fingerpads over your abdomen, grazing your skin with the fabric of your shirt.

As awe-inspiring though the concert is, part of you is preoccupied with the promise of wrapping yourself around him later in the night even if it is just to feel him smile in-between kisses. You're not quite sure you will be able to kiss him as freely as you did earlier, drawing him in and tasting him, but just the idea of skimming his lips with yours is enough to make your mouth flush with sensitivity.

John pecks the side of your throat, quickly, before telling that he's going to head off to The Box with Dave for a while, there's a DJ the latter wants to see.

"I'll be back," he tells you in a bloodcurdling Terminator impression and you swat at him as he skips out of range.

You watch them go, John leaping onto Dave's back in an unannounced piggyback and the two of them go careening into a group of festival-goers, to loud protest. Idiots.

It's later when you go line up to buy a bottle of water that you realize you're not even remotely worried or jealous. At all. No freaking out, no second guessing, nothing. Without a fault, with any former lover you've had, you'd be overanalyzing their departure. Afraid you'd not managed to please them, whether it was by your mere presence or the sum of prior fuck-ups that might drive them away.

It's easy with him, natural. This despite not even knowing what the hell the two of you _are_ to each other right this moment, _if_ you're anything at all.

 

With some shock you realize that around John, you can finally _breathe_.

*

Gamzee finds you when true dark sets in, a long arm appearing out of nowhere, reeling you in. You nearly clock the fucker on the nose before you recognize it's him.

"Fucking hell, Gamzee," you exhale, lowering your fist again. "A little warning, maybe, you shameless PDA-obsessed crotchsore." 

"Karkat," he says, stooping low to kiss the top of your head.

What the ever loving _fuck_.

He pats your chest with a huge hand, then holds it over your heart. "I got all thinking that you need to get your motherfuckin' rationalizing on with this here blood pusher of yours instead of your motherfuckin' think pan. It's the only righteous path for a motherfucker to get down with some wicked loving. The real kind of bitchtits miracles, you hear?"

"What," you go, disconcerted. In darkness Gamzee's angular face becomes a grinning skull, his eyes hectic with fervor. "Gamzee…" You touch his forehead, brushing his wild hair aside. It's cool to the touch.

For some reason you expected him to burn.

"Are… are you alright?" you murmur, just about ready to drop everything and rush him home in case… in case… well.

"Ought to be me asking you, ain't I, my brother?" he says, drumming his fingers in a jaunty beat across your left pectoral. "Might be you better get your meditating on. Be sure you ain't missing out on some wicked motherfucking truths, yanno?"

"Uh."

"You get your think on about it, best friend." 

And then he's gone, blending into the shadows as though he was born to.

… did… did Gamzee just give you love advice?

*

Early morning finds you back at the camping grounds. Everybody is huddled together on the grass, chatting and laughing, with the exception of Vriska, Gamzee, John and Dave. The latter two just texted Dirk they were underway and ten minutes later both of them lurch into view.

"Dave! You're choking me!"

"Sorry, but your ass is so skinny I'm afraid I'm gonna glide straight off like on one of them waterpark slides and I ain't got my swimmies, man," Dave replies.

They all but trip into the cozy circle you all made, Dave hanging on to John's back like a koala. 

"Ouch, dude, stop squeezing. You're killing my hips here." 

"Your hips don't lie, I get it. Can't help it I got some muscle in my thighs unlike your chicken sticks."

"Just get off-" John grumbles and Dave does, but as soon as he unhooks his legs John's grabbing his bicep to steady him. "He twisted his ankle in the stupid mosh pit," he says by ways of explanation while helping him limp a few paces until he can sit down properly. 

Jane goes to fetch an icepack from the Red Cross while Jade and Dirk try to help him out of the shoe. Out of breath, John totters over to where you are sitting, smiles wanly.

"Hey there," he says, wagging his eyebrows. "Come here often?"

"Sit down before your own stupidity manifests itself and strangles you, dweeb," you tell him, plucking at the leg of his jeans.

He disappears from your line of sight and is suddenly pressing into you from behind, a long leg draped at either side of you. You can see the muscle flex under the skin of his arms as he circles them around your waist, he's warm and he releases a happy exhale against the back of your neck. You can feel the heat of his mouth as he leans into you, noses against your ear.

"Dave is such a butt," he complains.

You pinch the bridge of your nose. "I don't even know why I thought this was going to be romantic," you wonder rhetorically.

"If you wanted to be wined and dined, you shouldn't have gone ass spelunking with John Egbert, bro," Dave responds flatly.

"I can be totally romantic. I am the romanticest. Ever!" John protests. Loudly. Right in your damn ear.

You hide your face in your palms at romanticest and decide to pretend this is all just a really weird, fucked-up dream.

"You are so not,"  Dave scoffs.

"Am so, too!" John says. "What do you know anyway, you're a butt Dave! A butt!"

"Am not."

"Are too!"

"Am not."

"Are too!"

"Not."

"Too!"

"Not not not plus one times infinity."

"That's cheating! Now you're a cheating butt! I hope you're proud."

You bonk your head against John's, hard enough to make him go 'heeeey', but at least he stops yelling in your ear for a moment. "Can we not talk about Strider's ass," you demand.

"Why not? I happen to be in the possession of a choice piece of ass. Like; slap it on a pedestal and train a spotlight on that booty kind of choice. It belongs in a museum."

"Newsflash! I don't fucking care!" you snap just as John goes: "I bet it's all flat and pasty." So much for shutting him up.

"It's not!" Jade informs everybody cheerfully. "It's great of squeezing and biting!" After which she proceeds with groping aforementioned rear end in a rather enthusiastic hands-on demonstration.

The visual makes John gurgle and hide his face into your shoulder in a show of acute denial. If you didn't have to snap your neck to do the same, you would.

It doesn't help that Dirk sort of absentmindedly adds: "I can vouch for that."

"Oh my god," Sollux goes. He looks torn between shocked and painfully fascinated.

Dirk rolls his eyes. "We're twins. We rather look alike and all. For the record, I have a great ass."

"Absolutely sublime," Jake adds loyally.

Dirk makes a 'there you go' sort of gesture. 

"Jade, Jade, stop touching my best bros butt," John pleads. "It makes me very uncomfortable."

Jade pauses thoughtfully, mid-fondle, and purses her lips. "A possibly sexy kind of uncomfortable?"

"No! The 'I will compulsively snort bleach and hope it scours the image out of my brain' kind of uncomfortable. You're my sister! You're not supposed to have sex until you're… like… forty or something. Or maybe ever. No sex for you. Because brotherly protectiveness."

"Excuses!" Jade huffs. "You can't stop me! I'll touch his butt however much I want! So there!"

And she does.

"Careful on the merchandise, Harley," Dave grunts after a particularly zealous squish.

"I need an adult," John whimpers. 

"There, there," you go, patting his hand.

*

Two hours later you're all still outside, but sprawled out and obviously flirting with the edges of sleep. The skies are inky and there's more stars on display than you've seen in a while.

You find yourself with your head in John's lap, losing snatches of hushed conversation as you doze lightly ever so often. Right now you're blinking muzzily, trying to motivate yourself to just go and crash in your tent.

Slantways from you are Dave and Jade, his blond head bowed over her bared shoulder. Jade's dressed in this floaty Mori girl inspired shift (and yes, you fucking know what that is, you're close friends with Kanaya Maryam for fuck's sake. You routinely spend Sundays bored out of your skull as she makes Rose model new designs, requiring your running commentary for reasons you cannot comprehend. But it's rather fun, though you'd rather die than admit it. Also free tea; always a bonus). Having eased the strap off her tanned shoulder he's laying out a line of delicate kisses, keeping her swathe of dark hair aside with brushing fingers.

Whatever his feelings for John, Dave's heart is now wholly entrusted to Jade Harley's capable hands. She knows it and isn't about to let anything happen to it. Watching them reminds you that yes, dammit, love is not fucking perfect, and usually it's out to rip your heart from underneath your ribs and take a piss in the hollow cavern of your aching chest with vindictive glee, but it can be this. 

It can be.

When John sees you're awake again he smiles at you, blue eyes hazy with sleep, before arching down to kiss you. Warm hands cradle the sides of your face, fingertips at your chin, coaxing it up to meet him. You do, your lips slotting together in a tentative upside-down kiss. It's intense, mouths catching differently, slick, warm and careful up until John experimentally traces the seam of your lips with his tongue and you part them for him. He licks inside, the flat of his tongue dragging along yours, kindling a hungry _need_ at the base of your spine. You fist both hands over your head into his hair to keep him place and taste him over and over until your injury begins to pang unbearably. You don't let him go and he doesn't take his lips from yours, just keeps them against you, skimming them from side to side in tiny increments. 

Your heart feels like a throbbing thorn in your chest, your exhales take on an unsteady quality and you think, yes, it can be this, too.

Dave's voice interrupts you: "Alright, stop being cute together, you losers. It's giving me acute diabetes and it'll be hella embarrassing to explain to my doctor that I got it from watching my two best bros make out."

Startled, you drop your hands out of John's hair, face going red. For a moment you'd completely forgotten that other people were a thing that actually existed. Also: _Dave_. You're basically the worst friend ever. Gloating your conquest right in front of him was the furthest thing from your mind (literally, all you were capable of processing was that John had no business tasting the way he did), but you went and did it anyway. John's blushing, too, dragging his bottom lip under his teeth, but he seems proud rather than guilty.

"Stop frowning," Dave interrupts. "Your face'll stick like that and you're gonna look like you're unable to take the biggest fucking dump of a lifetime. Like so damn constipated you'll make toilets uproot themselves in fear and plumbers will report you to be a national plumbing hazard on the spot." And then he sort of smiles and it's awfully… heartfelt. He's giving you his blessing, you realize.

John ruins the moment by sticking out his tongue at Dave, unabashedly childish. You're pretty sure the gesture wouldn't seem so lewd if he hadn't had his tongue in your mouth like half a minute ago, the imbecile. His hair is still mussed from your hands, his cheeks pink and he smells really really really _really_ good.

Okay, yes, you need him naked against you. Now.

Just as you sit up to drag him to your tent, a strange guy appears from between your and Aradia's tent, flounders into your personal bubble, trips over your legs and takes a spectacular dive into Jade's bosom. You rate it seven out of ten.

Absolute silence as the stranger flails his arms in an uncoordinated effort to extract himself.

"So, like, do I defend your honor and shove my foot up his ass or…?" Dave asks his girlfriend, brows lifting questioningly.

John surges to his feet, dumping you on your back into the grass and yells: "HEY! That's my sister's boobies, buster!"

Roxy snaps a picture. Dirk high-fives her. You facepalm. 

"No, it's fine," Jade helps the guy right himself, pats his shoulder consolingly while he babbles terrified apologies.

"I am, so so _sorry_!" he gushes, red in the face and hands plastered over his mouth in horror. "That was not, uh, a thing I was intending to do. I realize, that this was unacceptable and would, um, really like to apologize. A lot. But, I am looking, for Karkat Vantas. Maybe. It's kind of, urgent."

Slowly, you push yourself into a sitting position, eyes narrowing. "Maybe? Are you looking for me or not?" you say, lip curling. 

"Oh, are you him?" he turns to you, all big brown eyes and relief. His hair is styled into a mohawk, but it's all over the place due to his intimate encounter with Harley's impressive rack.

"Depends, you gibbering waste of breath," you say, accepting John's hand to pull you to your feet. That seems to genuinely confuse him, frowning and looking at loss. You roll your eyes. " _Yes_ , I'm he. What the fuck do you want."

Absolute relief on his face. He looks absurdly young, deceptively so, judging by the lines in his face and the width of his shoulders. "I'm Tavros," he says, exhaling and lurching to his feet clumsily. "It's your friend Gamzee…"

*

The last time terror threatened to blind you was during a phone call from the hospital. You didn't make it in time and your dad was dead before you got there. It's something you never wanted to experience again.

That's why you nearly burst into tears when you come upon Gamzee sitting there, not hurt, freaking out, about to beat someone bloody or fucking your ex-girlfriend.

Just… crying. Really loudly.

Tavros finally catches up, leans his palms on his knees to heave in some air.

"Gamzee," you say and edge closer carefully. His shaggy head inclines minutely towards you so you go to him, pry his face out of his hands and peer into his face. Ugh… white face paint everywhere, dripping down his chin and onto his shirt, staining your palms. "Hey," you bark to catch his attention.

"I destroyed it," he says thickly. "It was so beautiful and alive, a legit fucking miracle and I _murdered_ it. I fucking killed it, reduced it to a smear on the palm of my hand."

You stare at him in horror, thinking: _it's happened. It's finally happened. He snapped._

"He accidentally killed, a spider," Tavros offers, sort of sheepishly.

"There was no reason to harm the little fucker but I all up and hit it anyway and it was sort of still alive, little legs moving and I had to, best friend, had to put the little dude out of his misery you know." 

You just… yeah. Nothing. Your brain shuts itself off for its own damn good because _seriously_? Angry, you snap your fingers into Gamzee's face, nearly flicking his nose, until he turns to look at you.

"Look at me fuckstain," you growl as you grab his chin. "It was a goddamn spider. _Get over it_!"

Tears well anew in Gamzee's eyes and you feel like the biggest piece of shit ever. He still lets you hug him, tucking his face into your shoulder. Goddamn it, another shirt ruined. Sighing you rest your chin on top of his head, wondering how your life got so messed up. You frown at the dark skies in a gesture you hope conveys 'thanks a-fucking-lot' to whatever supreme being holds court.

Tavros actually crouches next to you and pets his hair, looking as though he'd like to join in with the bawling out of sheer sympathy.

"Is he on acid?" you snarl.

That gets a flinch. "What? I, I am not sure what, uh, you're asking me about." He's got enormous, remarkably pretty eyes. Really dark and fringed by long, curling lashes. He bats them at you, looking baffled and very, very worried. Like an innocent woodland creature about to be run over by lawnmower, slightly fearful but unfamiliar with the concept of imminent, messy death.

"Never mind," you groan, not even sure why you bothered to ask.

*

Restless, you skim your eyes over the face you know as well as your own and sigh. As dark as it is you can still discern the straight nose, his lashes creating dark half-moons upon his high cheekbones, the ragged scars. Gamzee is asleep; deep and truly. Thank fuck. You checked his meds, they were gone and presumably because Gamzee took them. Hopefully. 

God, fuck. You could've had John with you here. To be honest, you don't think you could've gotten it up again, four orgasms in less than twenty-four hours is quite enough. But.

Yeah.

Okay.

FINE.

You wanted to cuddle. And maybe touch his butt a little.

Instead you're babysitting your best friend so he won't have a goddamn mental breakdown because he killed _a spider_. Usually you don't let it deter you, but now you find yourself wondering if you aren't being slightly overprotective. Unhealthily so.

Kanaya would agree.

Then again Kanaya is part of the 'down with the clown' faction of your friends. Right now you don't even blame her (admittedly you are feeling cockblocked, so you're not particularly forgiving). Frowning, you reach out to tuck a curl away from his face. You nearly take out his eye when someone taps fingers on the outside of your tent, startling you.

An unsubtle whisper probably the whole camping can hear: "…Karkat?" 

It's John.  

Your heart skips a few beats as you jolt into a sitting position. As silently as you can you crawl towards the end of your sleeping mat to pull the zipper open. A familiar grin greets you. Exhaustion and the dark of the night leeches him of color, leaving him with hair like wet ashes and ivory skin. His blue eyes sit unnatural in the monochrome, too bright, too alive.

"Hey," he says on an exhale and smiles.

You scoop his face up between your hands and kiss him, hard. Breathe him in. John's wide-eyed when you let him pull back a little. "Hi," you murmur back.

"Uhm. Wow," he chuckles breathlessly. "Er. Is everything okay?"

Dropping your head into the curve of his neck you mumble, "I'm so sorry about this."

"No, no, it's okay. Can I… can I sleep with you anyway? Or would that set him off?"

" _Fuck_ Gamzee," you snap and grab him by the collar of his shirt. "C'mere."

You help him undress and if you get distracted with kissing and touching because _more, fuck, it's still not enough_ , he doesn't say anything about it. Just kisses you back and draws you down with him. There's small wet sounds as your lips come apart to breathe and rest your foreheads together, before pushing in for more again. Your head is swimming and your gasps are shallow, hands grasping at his shoulder blades. You pull him close and isn't not enough.

It's feels like you're doused in fire, warm and electric, your whole body warm and singing and so fucking sensitive you can hardly stand it.

Flushed.

That's how it feels.

Red and hot and physical.

Eventually your embrace calms and you find yourself half-under John, his long fingers drawing patterns into your skin, while he lazily nuzzles against the side of your face.

You _breathe_.

You're turned on, but it's secondary to the bone-deep contentment you feel. John's holding you, cocooning you against his front, chin tucked into your hair. There's a sliver of your consciousness having a hard time sorting out everything you're feeling, it's too much, too powerful, wrenching at your heart like gulls squabbling over a shred of fish. The fingers dragging through your hair are a welcome distraction and your eyes sinking shut as you start to drift off.

You spare a glance at Gamzee, curled on his side facing you.

Safe.

Safe like you are.

You close your eyes.

*

When the day breaks to spill pale light over the grounds you wake before either of them.

Gamzee is still on his side, a hand tucked against his cheek like a child.

John is everywhere, spread out on his back and long limbs akimbo, breathing softly through parted lips. When you trace the skin above the elastic of his boxers he squirms, but doesn't wake. Adorable. Fuck, he's so _warm_. You lean into him, nose against the hair at his temple and he smells so good, boyish and free and your sex from yesterday, so good, you can practically taste it in your mouth. Even asleep, John reacts to you, instinctively tipping towards your body and muttering something indistinct as he burrows against you, all puppyish warmth. Stomach knotting and twisting, you put your arms around him, trying not to think about how you have to give him up in only few hours.

*

"Goodmorning," he says through a yawn, voice thick and cloying with sleep as he stretches, arms flinging wide and toes pointing. It's a good thing Gamzee's up and awake or John'd have accidentally blackened his eye.

"Who's Casey?" you demand.

About half an hour ago he called for this… Casey in his sleep. ' _Casey, Casey! Sweetheart, sweet Casey!_ ' and you just about shat a brick where you lay. Personally you think you deserve all the awards for not head butting him awake and rattling an explanation out of him.

Sleepy blink. "Buh?" John goes.

"Casey." You repeat through clenched teeth. "Who the fuck is that?"

"I was talking in my sleep?" he wonders muzzily, propping himself up on an elbow.

"Yeah, but who the fuck is Casey?"

Outside of your tent one of your douchebag friends goes: "Alice, who the fuck is Alice?"

"SHUT UP BEFORE I TEAR OFF YOUR COCK AND SHOVE IT UP YOUR ASS!" you yell in the approximate direction before turning on John with a livid ' _WELL_?!' plastered on your face.

A grin. Does this douchebag ever stop being so goddamn _happy_? URGH.

"Oh, man!" John says, bouncing up. "Casey is the best!" -you already loathe this Casey with every fibre contained within endless well of hatred within you- "She's my pet lizard!"

… what.

"… your… what?" you go, eyebrow twitching.

"Hang on!" John dives over you to get at his phone where it is still trapped within in the pocket of his discarded jeans. Flicks through the menus before shoving it so close into your face you go cross-eyed. "Here! Isn't she the cutest?"

The LCD screen shows a lizard. A yellow lizard. Okay.

"You have a  girl lizard named Casey." 

"Yep!"

"… a yellow lizard named Casey."

"Yep!"

"And you call out this yellow girl lizard's name in your sleep… why?"

John scrunches up his nose. "I had this dream where a green evil alien stole her and me and Dave with bird wings had to go save her… I think. Or maybe bird Dave stole her. Something like that."

"… bird Dave."

"Yep!"

"You're weird as hell, John," you tell him with no mediocre amount of concern. Yellow girl lizards named Casey. Green evil aliens. Possibly evil bird Dave. Why do you even like this moron? You don't understand it at all. But, fuck, you do. You like him so, so _much_. 

It scares you that your expression is naked enough for him to see that you do. Because his wide, toothy grin wavers, wilts, melts. Without his glasses his face seems more angular, fiercer. Masculine with its angles, his strong jaw and dark brows. He's a late bloomer still, even at nineteen, you realize. John will never be handsome or beautiful to anyone but those who love him, and yet he might just turn heads on the street in a few more years.

Strong, too. Those muscles in his upper body are not just a fortuitous esthetic boon. With little trouble he lifts you into the cradle of his legs. You make a low noise in your chest because _holy shit that's hot you bet he could lift you easy while fucking you, hands hard on your buttocks as he spreads you for him, fuck, yes_ , and it settles low in your belly even as you reach for him and tuck close. John wraps around you, lips against the shell of your ear, clings. His pulse jumps visibly under the skin of his throat and you press a kiss to it and want to be closer, feel the thrum of that rise and fall around you like a beating ocean, drown yourself in him until you know this person in every possible way and you barely have hours, less, and he'll _leave_.

It terrifies you, until you can feel your dread coalescence like a clot of blood on the back of your tongue.

*

You have much, much less than that. 

How long you sit in his lap like that you don't know. Just that it's much, much too soon when Aradia discreetly opens a handspan of the flap, expression apologetic.

"Karkat. It's time."

"Okay," John responds when you find you _can't_ , his voice low and hushed. Aradia leaves and John takes you by the back of your neck, pressing your foreheads together. His thumb outlines the small hollow at the base of your skull.

You don't know what to say.

John kisses you, slow and sweet and chaste and breaks your fucking heart.

*

You crowd into Gamzee's side while you wordlessly pack and break up your tent.

At least Gamzee is back to… well. Normal isn't a word that applies to the overall concept of Gamzee Makara as an individual, but what passes for acceptable Gamzee behavior you suppose. The stuttering wonder from last night is back, too. In daylight Tavros Nitram reveals himself to be olive of skin, black of hair, lanky yet athletic. Cute, you suppose. Gamzee seems to think so. Vriska, too. You have knack for spotting romantic entanglement a mile off, can see it happen before others realize it even if you are never able to sort out the wreckage that is your own love life.

You hope they both keep a lid on it because you're in no state to mediate right now. 

Instead you listen to Tavros be appalling at rapping while he freestyles with Gamzee. Dave looks middy offended, like someone farted in a church, and you'd find that hilarious if you didn't need to concentrate so much on _move, reach, pick it up, put it away_.

And then, suddenly, it's time to say goodbye.

The sun is tucked behind clouds, but's it's warm and balmy. All around you thousands of others are doing the same, packing up and leaving. Four days that felt like a century and over as fast as a single heartbeat.

Goodbye Roxy and Roxy's saucy boobs.

Bye Jake even though you probably couldn't care less. No, no don't talk, it's quite alright. 

Wave from a safe distance at Jane. She doesn't look happy with you and you don't want to get stabbed.

Spiderbitch… yeah no. 

Fistbump with Dirk, you'll probably see him soon.

A hug from Jade. She squeezes hard enough your ribs crack. Won't be long before you see her again, either.

A manly pat on the back from Dave, before he pulls you in briefly. "See ya next week, bro," he promises softly and adds: "Deep breaths."

John…

You hate that everything is such a goddamn federal fucking issue with you, you can't even enjoy nice sex and welcome intimacy for what it is, no, you have to absolutely prod at, brood on it and get tangled up in it until you're _lost_ , so fucking lost that you're incapable of even so much as offering a _goodbye_.

So you stand there like the useless piece of shit you are until he comes to you and hugs you.

You fear you might shatter under that gentle pressure, unable to bear the feeling of his ribs expanding and contracting as he breathes you in. Your hands slide around him to clutch fistfuls of John's shirt, welding yourself against him, lips brushing the tendon in his neck. John sighs shakily and releases you, steps back.

He's not smiling now.

Okay. You nod. To yourself or to him, you're not sure, but you find yourself taking a step back, too. Turning. Walking away.

The chorus of byes that send you off are cheerfully forced and you're distantly relieved that Aradia waves enthusiastically enough for the four of you. Dimly you realize that Gamzee has all your bags shouldered with ease, leaving you nothing to busy yourself with and it sends a spark of helpless anger through you. Your breath is choppy and everything is too bright, too loud, tilting around you at weird angles. Underfoot the grass is absolutely destroyed with the daily passage of millions of people, churned into a brown cake of dead plant matter and garbage.

Your car keys are in your pocket. Did you put those there? You can't even remember. You hope the traffic won't be too bad because you want to go _home_. 

"WAIT!"

In front of you, Aradia and Sollux pause, look over their shoulders with bemusement. Gamzee lumbers to a stop a little further, smiles. You clumsily drop your keys and hiss in annoyance. You pick them up and wonder why the hell they're still staring at you.

"Karkat!"

Dreamlike, you turn around.

John's breathing hard from running and his jaw is set with determination. He grabs one of your hands, and holds it awkwardly because your fingers are curled around the keys. 

"Karkat, will you be my boyfriend?" he asks.

Nobody's ever asked you before. Out loud with those words. But he's absolutely serious, eyes earnest and hopeful and you open your mouth and. Ruin it. 

"John… you're nineteen."

Behind your back, one of your friends makes a noise. John stares at you. He does't flinch or reel back or waver.

Instead his chin goes up and you think he might hit you. 

You can't believe you said that. You with your verbose vocabulary, wielding your words like a weapon with ease, screaming them, shouting them, spitting them out like carefully aimed barbs or lining them neat and clever to cushion a more compassionate message, but sincere nonetheless, never speechless and now you've got _nothing_.

"So I'm good enough to fuck but not to be your boyfriend?" he challenges, ablaze with fury. 

"No!" you manage, wretched. "I didn't mean…"

You don't even know what you mean. Every single thing you could've offered to fix this disaster skitters through your grasping fingers in your numbed mind. You want to say _yes, yes, of course_ , but there seem so many reasons _not_ to and perversely enough the prime one is: 

It's too good to be true.

"No, _what_?" John presses. "Didn't mean _what_?"

You glance at him and see that under his outrage, John looks destroyed. He's still got your hand, but it feel like there's a gap between you both rapidly splitting into a chasm you have no idea how to bridge and he somehow knows this. His hand over yours is clenching down so hard his knuckles stand out white and the keys dig into the flesh of your palm. You're missing something, something very obvious and if only you could figure it out you could set this to rights.

You're wordless and he looks hurt and upset and _no, no, don't_ and then he's talking again and you wish he wouldn't, you nearly had it figured out.

"Just… just _tell_ me if it was only sex, okay? You'd still be an asshole, I mean, who even sleeps with… I mean after. You _let_ me! You said yes! And with the kissing! Why'd… Never mind. Just tell me, but don't give me this really stupid excuse about my age, it's not something I can fix and you really didn't seem to mind when you… when you." 

He's red in the face and angry, so fucking angry and you hurt him and he's so fucking precious, so different from you, utterly flawed and strange to you and lovely, and you hurt him and he… he…

 

Shit.

STUPID. STUPID. DUMB. 

You're the the biggest fucking ignoramus ever.

John's enamored with you.

You feel your jaw drop as you gape at him. It's a miracle it doesn't crash straight through the Earth's crust and slaughters a blue whale as it emerges into the Indian Ocean.

While you were being a self-centered asshole and fretting over your impeding heartache when this would end, John was afraid that he didn't even stand a chance. That you'd just up and leave and you did, damn you, you did, you literally just turned and walked away from him. And while you did it because you're an incurable pessimist, John was afraid you'd leave because he didn't even stand a chance with you. Because he was too different, not good enough for you maybe, too young. Something he's utterly powerless to change.

"Yes," you blurt.

John's shoulders tense. "Yes? Yes what…? Yes it was only se-"

"No!" you yell.

"You're… Karkat, you're confusing me here."

"No, I mean yes. FUCK." Deep breaths, Dave said so. Inhale. Exhale. Okay. "Yes, I want to be. Your boyfriend."

Wow. You'd feel like you're back in grade school if it weren't for the immediate change in John's posture, still defensive, still suspicious, still hurt but also _hopeful_ , god fucking hell, this kid is such an optimist, it's terrible, reality isn't this easy, how can he even function and take it and still smile and hope and fuck you love it.

"I'm sorry for. I'm an asshole. I'm really sorry. I've got no excuse, I'm just a goddamn bastard and I ought to be shot on the spot and processed into cat food if that wouldn't be animal abuse because even cats deserve better than that."

John swallows. "Yes?"

"Yes."

You barely have time to appreciate the fierce elation in his answering grin before he's in your arms, mashing his lips against yours with enough force to knock some teeth out.

Someone starts to slow clap, soon joined by the others and you can hear Sollux say: "I love this soap opera. It's better than _Days of our Lives_. Only with less aliens."

You give him your middle finger over John's shoulder and smile into your kiss, over and over until your lip starts to bleed again.

 

 

 

 

 

_-Two Days Later-_

"I SWEAR TO GOD SOLLUX CAPTOR IF YOU DON'T GET RID OF YOUR SHIT IN THE LIVING ROOM LIKE RIGHT THIS FUCKING INSTANT I WILL STAPLE YOUR TESTICLES TO THE BUMPER OF MY TRUCK AND DRIVE AROUND THE BLOCK LIKE I'M SOLICITING TO MORPH INTO A MERRY-GO-AROUND."

"Holy shit, KK. Calm your fucking tits! You'd think getting laid after, what, three years would mellow you out a little."

"SHUT YOUR PIEHOLE CAPTOR BEFORE I PUT MY FIST THROUGH IT! Also it was only two years… and six months… and four hours…"

Sollux's door opens a crack and he pokes his head through it, so he can lift his eyebrows _meaningfully_. Without his shades his heterochromatic eyes make the scorn appear disproportional (more concentrated in the blue eye than in the brown), but still blistering.   

"Shut up!" you snarl at him.

"I didn't say anything KK."

"Just shut the hell up."

"It's all in your head."

"If you don't get rid of this mess right now I will create a goddamn bonfire out of your stuff and dance around it naked as I summon demons from the furthest realm to fuck you up the ass, you lisping dipshit!" you threaten as you poke his scrawny, naked chest. "I bet most of your clothes are in there."

"Go ahead," Sollux says, shrugging. "Like I give a shit."

Point. Sollux basically dicks around in his room wearing only skintight shorts to reduce static. The computers, servers and other machinery generate so much heat it's like a sauna and he's unlikely to ever get chilly. He barely leaves the apartment as it is and neither you or Gamzee blink twice at the sight of his pallid flesh. Fuck, he's called your bluff.

You're reduced to: "You stink. Take a shower!" 

Sollux rolls his eyes and closes the door in your face, leaving you fuming with impotent rage.

"Have a piece chocolaty miracle and relax, best friend," Gamzee says, shoving a plate of brownies under your nose. He's been baking the shitty things ever since Tavros said he'd come over later today.

"I will not be appeased by your godawful pastries, fucknuts," you tell him before cramming one into your mouth. Okay, those are pretty good. You snatch two more. Gamzee pats the top of your head and drifts back into the kitchen.

Wow. You're pretty much starving. When was the last time you ate? You can't even remember. Granted, you don't remember a lot of what you did during the past forty-eight hours besides adding ectoBiologist to your pesterchum as soon as you got home. That and watching a whole fucking lot of Sailor Moon to soothe your soul in-between naps.

Basically you've been spectacularly unproductive. 

… and you totally forgot to call Kanaya.

Shit.

You head for your room to amend this horrendous oversight instantly. As you pass by your desk you jiggle your mouse. Still grayed out. Stomach churning you plunk down against the side of your bed, pulling your knees to your chest and call up your only remotely sane friend.

The dial tone goes over one, two, three times, before it's picked up.

_Please don't be Lalonde, please don't be Lalonde, please don't be Lalonde, for everything good and holy in this world PLEASE don't be Lalonde._

"Hello Karkat."

FUCK. NOPE NOPE. ABORT ABORT. PLAN B.

You don't have a plan B.

 _Shiiiiiiiit_.

"Rose," you say, very, very carefully.

"Been quite a while since we last spoke, hasn't it?"

 _Not nearly long enough_. "I saw you last time when I came over for tea." You call it tea because like fuck you're calling it 'fashion get-together' or whatever the hell. Shit's embarrassing enough as it is.

"True enough. Will you be visiting for… _tea_ ," -a pointed, sardonic pause- "this weekend?"

"Yeah, I guess," you agree quickly. "Is Kanaya there?"

"She's in the shower."

LIES. EVIL WOMAN. _Think fast!_ "… I'll call back later."

"Oh, just chat with me for a minute. She'll be done in only a moment. Besides, I am really curious as to how your entire festival… experience went."

 _OH GOD WHY?_   "I don't think this is a conversation I want to have with you," you say miserably.

"Oh, shoosh," Rose says, sounding absolutely delighted. "Did you happen to meet anybody _interesting_?"

You crack. "Dave told you didn't he?"

"My sources shall remain confidential."

"I'm going to fucking murder him."

"Karkat. Are you aware that John and I dated for the grand total of four months when we were fifteen? And that he, to this day, remains very dear to me?"

"Someone kill me now please."

"I care quite a lot about John and his emotional wellbeing."

"Anybody, please."

"And that it has come to my knowledge that you nearly turned him down because, and I quote: _was nineteen_? Despite the fact that you sprayed your man milk on him beforehand without any complications." 

"… KANAYA HELP."

"Karkat."

"I could've lived a long, happy life without hearing you say _man milk_ , Rose. Goddammit."

"Karkat."

With a sigh, you bonk your head against your knees. Repeatedly and with some violence. "I was being stupid and I have no excuse and I'll pay with my lifeblood to make up for it."

"Is that a promise?"

Your eye twitches. "Though to put the situation into perspective John was thirteen when I was eighteen. That's…"

"Completely irrelevant," Rose interjects. "He's nineteen, Karkat."

"I know," you mumble. "I said yes."

"I am aware of that," Rose says softly and it sounds like you're granted clemency. Hallelujah. "Ah, here's Kanaya now."

"Thanks."

"Oh, and Karkat?"

"… yes?"

"If you break his heart I will break your neck."

"…"

"Have a nice day."

A static rustle as the phone changes hands.

"Karkat?"

"KANAYA OH THANK GOD."

*

Kanaya's smokey contralto lulls you for the next hour and half. Even as you rant at great length and make no sense at all she makes all the appropriate noises as she helps you sort out the disaster that is your emotions.

"Fuck, Kanaya, I don't know what I'm doing! He lives in Seattle, I don't even know when I'll see him again. How is that even supposed to work? And he's so… so…"

"Sweet? Charming? Ruggedly handsome?" she prompts.

"Fuck no!"

"… I see."

"Seriously, he's really fucking annoying! Think happy and cheerful all the fucking time. Constantly smiling! What the hell?!"

"Sounds dreadful, what the hell indeed."

"I know! And he's a total jackass. All up in your business and caring and sarcastic."

"How dare he."

"Yes! Who even does that?"

"Why, certainly nobody I know would even think of meddling with another person's personal affairs." 

"Exactly!"

"What a cad."

"And he's taller than me!"

"Unforgivable."

"Absolutely. Stupid John Egbert with his idiot grin and his awful funny jokes and his freaky yellow lizard and his stupid blue eyes and his nice skin and beautiful hands and he smells really, really nice, and he threw a water balloon at me, who even does that?"

"Karkat?"

"… yeah?"

"You're in love."

You wipe at your cheeks angrily. "… Yeah. I know."

While you search for the remains of your dignity in the comforting shadows of your room, Kanaya is a silent but comforting presence nonetheless. You really fucking love her so much, you can hardly stand it. What would you do without her? Somewhere in the apartment you can hear Tavros help Gamzee bake more pies. It seems far away. Just as you manage to calm your breathing your laptop pings and the screen flares to life.

\-- ectoBiologist [EB] accepted your friend request! --

You promptly begin hyperventilating again.

"Kanaya," you choke out as you rise slowly to your feet.

"Yes?"

\-- ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] \--

EB: hi karkat!  
EB: ...  
EB: karkat karkat karkat karkat karkat karkat karkat karkat.

"He accepted my friend request. He's talking to me!" Your fingers shake.

"That's good, isn't it?" Kanaya responds.

"What do I do?!" you hiss even as you are irrevocably drawn towards your computer, sliding into the chair. You eyes never leave the blue text, not even to blink.

EB: kaaaaaaaarkaaaaaaaat.  
EB: beep beep meow! eheheh.

"Talk to him," Kanaya suggests with a chuckle in her voice.

"… I. Yeah. Alright." 

"Call me later," Kanaya tells you.

"Okay," you murmur automatically and end the call before you remember to say goodbye. You think she'll understand.

EB: um…   
EB: karkat? are you there?   
CG: YES, YOU IMPATIENT PEST.  
CG: I AM HERE.  
EB: :D

 

 

 

  
_Usually when things has gone this far, people tend to disappear_  
 _No one will surprise me unless you do_  
 _I can tell there's something goin' on, hours seems to disappear_  
 _Everyone is leaving, I'm still with you_

 

 

 

  
_-fin-_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we've come to the end. I hope you all enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it. My sincerest gratitude to everybody who took the time to leave a comment, it is greatly appreciated!
> 
> ART FOR YOUNG FOLKS:  
> [The Chase by orangelemonart (hello completely amazing!) -scene from Young Folks](http://orangelemonart.tumblr.com/post/82311365976/this-has-been-such-a-lousy-week-with-nonstop)  
> [John fanboys over Karkat's tattoos by bluearturtle (complete with pink nail polish!) -scene from Young Folks](http://bluearturtle.tumblr.com/post/68042020646/i-forgot-hte-tattoo-thingies-it-bugged-me-so-i)  
> [John and Karkat kissing in the rain by bluearturtle -scene from Young Folks chapter 1](http://bluearturtle.tumblr.com/post/70521165259/johnkat-kisses-in-the-rain-guess-what-fic-im)  
> [John and Karkat at the festival by bluearturtle -scene from Young Folks chapter 1](http://bluearturtle.tumblr.com/post/68596539613/hed-been-warm-and-his-skin-was-soft-wonderfuli)  
> [Kiss in the rain scene by Scribblebunny for anon (I HAVE NO WORDS -this is gorgeous)](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/79543715390)  
> [John POV -waking up next to Karkat by Scribblebunny (I love this so much!)](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/76076834852)  
> [Karkat and John sitting together at the festival by RayRay (look at theeeeem!)](http://raydrawlings.tumblr.com/post/82724831162/coincidentally-i-had-been-working-on-this-piece)  
> [Character compilation by bluearturtle (this is mind-blowing!)](http://bluearturtle.tumblr.com/post/90595315553/ive-wanted-to-do-this-some-time-now-young-folks)  
> [Kisses by bluearturtle](http://bluearturtle.tumblr.com/post/92032443958/feels-like-all-i-ever-draw-is-everlinds-yf-verse)  
> [John and Karkat being dweebs in love by escl](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/91058809033)  
> [John and Karkat spooning! by escl](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/91384438813)  
>    
> 

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to nerdish who always, _always_ has my back -no questions asked. Thank you so fucking much.  
>  And to Valshenne for putting up with my endless shenanigans.
> 
> The idea for this story began when I saw [this artwork](http://buffdaddyjohn.tumblr.com/post/39908457797) by the amazing [papabrostrider](http://papabrostrider.tumblr.com) (go check it out! gogogo!). Hence the title.
> 
> The song is [Young Folks by Peter, Bjorn and John](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1y_9xLw1ooc)


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